The Lark Ascending
by whirligigkat
Summary: Miss Margaret Hooper is an odd one; a lady who has no interest in marriage, but all the interest in the world in learning the physician's profession- much to her Mother's chagrin. But when she is forced into marriage with a mysterious stranger, her life takes a turn into the unforeseen shadows... Victorian Sherlolly AU, SAMFA 2017 winner 1st place (tie), best AU. COMPLETE!
1. On the Wings of Dreams

**The Lark Ascending**

 **Part I: Dartmoor**

 **I. On the Wings of Dreams**

In her dreams she flew, as a lark ascending on a secret wind. From her beady eyes the moors unfurled, stone and heath strewn artfully as if by God's own hand. The heady weight of freedom rippled beneath her wings and, sensing this, she flew higher, ever higher. The taste of the air shifted; the East Wind tickled her nostrils and fear, rank and stinking, made itself known. Nothing had changed save for the faint thrum of electricity on the breeze, but on the endless horizon, a storm was brewing. It was far from her, and not a threat- but it was there, present and menacing. She flew on, and the currents brought her closer to the source of the storm. As she watched, a stab of lightning forked to the Earth, awesome and frightening in it's brilliance. She knew, in the deep recesses of her being, that she oughtn't to continue; that all impulses implored her to _turn back, turn back!_ But she could not: and it was in this inexorable pull to the glorious and dangerous that she found the seeds of her dread and dismay. Her eyes grew wide against the surge of light, the very pits of her stomach leaping to the tips of her wings, fingers…

She woke with a great gasp of air from the crushing weight of sleep, the tendrils of dark hair that escaped from her cap slick with perspiration. The barest cracks of dawn crept through the hangings of the window, and she focused on the grey light as her heartbeat slowly subsided. She pulled at the strings of her cap fretfully, abhorrent of the restrictions it placed on her head. Her plait fell loose against her shoulder as she shifted the quilt aside, swinging her legs up and over the edge of the bed. The cold of the floor caused her to hiss in discomfort, and she padded quickly to the window. She slipped behind the hangings to huddle in the window seat, resting her chin against her knees, and clasping her hands about her legs in an effort to feel the contact of every point of her body. The breath she drew was smoke against the window pane, and as she gazed out over the cold light of early spring, she remembered the feeling of wind against her cheek; the lark ascending in dreams alone. The birds had just begun to chirrup cautiously from the scant trees in the garden, and she envied them wholeheartedly. They were not bound by the duties and life of a woman: ever the horizon was Molly's limit, and yet they, with their hollow bones and delicate bodies, could fly wherever they pleased. Every day would be a lesson in tedium, if she did not so painstakingly endeavor to exercise her mind. The action of a man's life was not hers, and the slow creep of banality took it's toll on her staunch walls built on optimism.

The house groaned, as houses are wont to do. And as her pulse steadied, her breaths grew long; presently, she slept.

" _Molly…_ " The very air whispered in her ear, consuming her senses; a voice carried by the wings of the bird.

" _Molly…"_ She sighed, her lashes fluttering against her cheek, as she stirred to slow, cold wakefulness.

"Molly!" The sharp tones of her Mother's voice overcame her, and she sat upright, the hazy edges of sleep escaping her mind. "Child, what on Earth possessed you to sleep over there? Good heavens, and without a covering, as well! You'll catch your death of cold, mark my words. Wake up! Wake up, now, we've company later-"

"C-company, Marm?" she yawned, stifling a groan as she stretched her stiff, cold limbs. Her feet were ice, and she massaged life slowly back into them. Her mother tutted softly as she pulled open the wardrobe, handing Molly her corset and day-dress. She took the proffered clothing, dressing quickly in an attempt to warm her frozen limbs.

"Yes, _company_ , if I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times- Mrs. Donahue will have the breakfast ready soon, I need you to milk the cow quickly so there's milk for the table, Grace isn't in just yet.."

"Who's coming?" Molly asked absently, crossing to the wardrobe to pull down her apron.

"Mrs. Vernet, you goose! Now, hurry up, we've much to do.." And with that she left, hands fluttering anxiously.

Her father met her at the foot of the stairs with a glance of carefully schooled surprise, the hints of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. He was a man of lean stature, with a kind face hidden behind round spectacles; the sort of man that one instantly feels at ease with, and is consequently harried within an inch of his life by his wife. "Ah, Molly," he said on seeing her.

"Good morning, Papa," she said, raising a brow as he beckoned her surreptitiously closer. "What is it?"

"Don't show your Mother- here: an early gift." He passed her a heavy tome that had been bulkily hidden under the cloth of his coat. It's great weight surprised her, and she glanced down at the cover. _Anatomy: Descriptive and Surgical, by Henry Gray_.

"I- thank you, Papa! But it's not a holiday- "

"Does a Father need a reason to dote upon his daughter?" He asked with a small smile. "Come, hide it quickly, or Mrs. Hooper will have my hide."

"But Mother's just asked me to see to the cow- "

"Nonsense. Grace will do it. Go now, quickly, and hide it somewhere she will not see." She flashed him a wide grin then, trusting that everything would find itself in order, and darted back to her room.

With the door safely closed behind her, she chanced a moment to look down at the book. And what a book it was: filled with the most fascinating anatomical illustrations, and careful commentary as to many of the newest surgical procedures. The drawings were executed with the utmost precision, and she longed to have the luxury of hours in which to study it. What a treasure! For if there was anything in which Molly Hooper took the keenest pleasure, it was in learning her Father's profession. He was a Doctor, and though this trade might have been seen in the highest of lights, he was only a country Doctor, as it were; and the most difficult cases he had seen in recent years were Mrs. Bentham's common complaint of headaches. They were of healthy stock in Dartmoor, and Dr. Hooper was rarely called for any excessive grievance.

But it was in Dr. Hooper's extensive library that his daughter had found her first passion: in the examination of the human body, hidden away in the crackling binding of her Father's books. It was, of course, an undertaking neither decorous nor entirely proper; but in the absence of sons, Dr. Hooper was obliged to humor his only daughter's every whim. So he began to teach her, slowly, under the disapproving remarks of her Mrs. Hooper- but she was steadfast in her desire, and so it was allowed.

And now, as she slowly gained the formidable age of 25, it had become abundantly clear to Mrs. Hooper that this incessant coddling had _not_ been in her daughter's best interest. She had become willful, with a strong and immoderate manner of speech; and yet, somehow, she had still managed to gain the interest of a small handful of young men, God be praised. But Molly Hooper would not have a husband to stem her learning; a husband to curtail the experiments she squirreled away in her room using equipment she had found in her Father's study. No: a husband was not an ideal she would subject herself to, for she fancied herself a woman who would _not_ be an accomplice to domestic bliss. The running of her own household was a business in which she cared not a whit. But this had become a problem for our young lady of society: because Margaret Hooper had become downright _scandalous._

She might have simply developed into one of those women who were mere curiosities in their old age, unmarried and a bit queer; but sadly, the problem of inheritance was one that her mother could not ignore. So Molly Hooper persevered in her study, with the steadfast wish to become a physician, no matter how unlikely that outcome was; while Mrs. Hooper just as voraciously employed all possible veins to entice a young man of good fortune to marry her odd daughter. The prospects had grown thin, and indeed, the possibility of marriage was beginning to look bleak, with or without any goodly sum of income.

It was with this in mind that Molly carefully stowed away this absolute marvel of a book, and resigned herself to an afternoon with her Mother's chosen _company._


	2. The Beguiling Mr Holmes

**A/N: I'd just like to quickly thank all of you amazing people that have faved/followed this! Wow! And a big special thank you to you kind reviewers- you keep me going, and it is so nice to hear what people think! :)**

 **II. The Beguiling Mr. Holmes**

"My dear Mrs. Hooper, what a pleasure it is, how very _long_ it has been!" exclaimed Mrs. Vernet, sweeping into the drawing room. Mrs. Hooper had barely the time to rise and greet the exuberant woman before Mrs. Vernet bore down upon the other occupant of the room. "And _Margaret_ , my goodness, you're a woman grown now! The last time I saw you, you were still in your short-skirts. My, but your home is _such_ a treasure, quite the quaint country house, is it not, Sherlock?" She had during this time shed her outer garments, piling them haphazardly into poor Grace's waiting arms. The lace of her bonnet quivered underneath her ample chin as she removed it in a brisk manner, revealing elaborately set curls at either side of her head. She gestured carelessly at her surroundings, decorated in a modest and unassuming manner, before turning to glance at the man who had followed her into the room. He was a slender gentleman, with keen, slanted eyes set over a long nose and angular features- a man that gave the impression that nothing escaped his notice. His dark hair curled against his high forehead in a cavalier style, as if he had just arrived swept from the moors on a proud horse. In his hand was a smooth, long case, about the length of a musical instrument, which he deftly propped against the bookcase.

"I do hope you'll excuse my Aunt's lack of propriety- she can be overbearing to the point of excess, if she is not kept in check. I am Mr. Holmes, Mrs. Vernet's nephew," he said with a wry smile.

Mrs. Hooper fidgeted anxiously at this announcement, but Mrs. Vernet only guffawed loudly, and replied, "My, but he has picked up the habit of impertinence while in London! He is so very unscrupulous with his words."

"On the contrary, Madam; they are exactly the words I meant." rejoined Mr. Holmes, moving forwards to kiss Mrs. Hooper's outstretched hand.

"Oh!" exclaimed Mrs. Hooper, laughing prettily. "Oh, but do sit down. Mrs. Vernet, it has not been so long as all that! Why, I dare say it's hardly been a month or two since when we last met, my dear; but it is true you have not seen our Molly in a great many years. Mr. Holmes, it is a pleasure to meet you; this is my daughter, Margaret."

Mr. Holmes nodded at Molly austerely, his eyes flicking over her form quickly- from her eyes, to nose, to lips and hands and toes- before they seated themselves carefully. She blushed at the careful attention of his scrutinizing gaze, and looked determinedly away from him- though she could feel his eyes upon her still. The tea service was already laid, and Mrs. Hooper gestured at the pot. "Will you take tea?"

"Is it green tea?" Queried Mrs. Vernet, distractedly adjusting the ribbons adorning the cloth of her heavy bosom.

"No, I am afraid it is brown." said Mrs. Hooper, with just the slightest hint of acerbity coloring her words. But Mrs. Vernet was not one to make notice of such small details, and only laughed.

"Oh, no, then; I cannot bear the stuff. Green tea possesses the most elegant and delicate flavor, and I could not do without it! No, not at all. But don't fret, Mrs. Hooper, I'm quite sure a biscuit or two will do; you do have biscuits, of course?"

"We do, Marm," answered Molly waspishly, "I hope shortbread will suffice? We do not possess such a large household staff as you surely do, and have to make do with such creature comforts as we can manage on a Doctor's earnings. Oh, but you already saw the brown tea, so surely you must have surmised as much yourself. Shortbread?" She offered the dish to Mrs. Vernet, with a sweet smile and flashing eyes.

"Oh..well, I never..!" blustered Mrs. Vernet, as Mrs. Hooper shot a look clearly stating _behave, wicked girl!_ in Molly's direction. Molly grinned impishly, and could have sworn Mr. Holmes had smothered a laugh behind his long-fingered hand.

"Our Margaret has quite the sharp tongue, you will have to excuse her; she means nothing by it," apologized Mrs. Hooper.

"Yes, well perhaps she had better test her razor wit on Sherlock here, rather than myself! They are closer in age, and probably a better match in a battle of tongues," remarked Mrs. Vernet.

"I apologize, Mrs. Vernet, it was not my place to make such observations," demurred Molly, ducking her head and taking a sip of tea.

"Oh, never mind, girl, never mind..did you know, Sherlock comes from London? Only arrived last night, but the country air will do him good. City air, you know, has nothing on country air- "

"Do you know," said Mr. Holmes, standing abruptly, "I am not in need of tea, or shortbread. A breath of country air _would_ do me wonders as this conversation is positively stifling. Miss Hooper," and here he turned to face her, "I noticed a fresh bit of greenery 'round the back, would you care to show it to me?"

"I was just thinking the same thing myself," she said quietly, rising to follow his quickly retreating form out of the room.

"I think they'll do quite nicely," said Mrs. Vernet with satisfaction after a moment's pause, as they watched the young people make their escape. "Quite the splendid idea, Felicity, well done!" A clink of china was heard, followed by Mrs. Hooper's question,

"But Sherlock is quite an unusual name, isn't it?"

"My dear, his name is _William_! But he insists..."

He held the door open for her as she approached, leaning against the frame. The afternoon sun lit his silhouette, and Molly was suddenly very aware that this was a man brought to her very own home in an attempt to have her married off. She stiffened her resolve to dislike Mr. Holmes, but found the emotion lacking at it's foundations, for he seemed a curious man indeed.

"My Aunt," he said as she drew near, "is a preposterous woman; dull as a brick, I'm afraid, but unfortunately the keeper of my purse strings."

Molly smiled at that, but could think of nothing to say, and so only paused to be sure he was following her. He could not have been older than thirty, but he carried the demeanor of a man older than his years; not in maturity, but in the scrutiny he gave every object and person around him. His gait was unhurried, but his long limbs brought him next to her easily. They walked in silence for as long as silence could hold, rounding the side of the house into the small garden that led the way back into the moors.

"Well," she said presently, "here it is, the garden. Not much to look at, but the potatoes grow, so I suppose it's worth something."

"And do you dig your own potatoes?" Mr. Holmes asked with a grin. She ignored the question, grimacing at the turn of conversation and not wanting to draw attention to their situation.

"My Mother fancies herself a matchmaker," she commented lightly, seating herself at the garden bench. The coolness of the day wrapped itself around her, and she shivered slightly, wishing she had thought to bring her shawl. He sat beside her, careful to leave a space between them. The glance he sent her was quick and nervous, and Molly could not help but smile at his awkwardness.

"Mr. Holmes," she said entreatingly, "I feel I must tell you frankly that I have no intention to be wed; to you, or to any man."

He whistled out a sigh of relief, and exclaimed, "But this is excellent news!" At her mischievous quirk of an eyebrow, he hurriedly continued, "I mean to say, that is kind of you to inform me. Make no mistake, Miss Hooper, I also am in no hurry to be wed as I am already married to my work."

"Then we are of an agreement!" Molly replied, "That is well; I am glad we did not pander overlong in avoiding the subject, and now can move to towards an avenue of friendship. May I ask what is the manner of your work?"

"Friendship, Miss Hooper? Why, I was not aware that any great friendship could ever exist between the sexes," said Mr. Holmes dismissively.

"You are wrong, sir!" cried Molly, looking askance at the man beside her. But his expression was that of amusement as he continued,

"You disagree? Pray tell, then, what great friend have you of the male variety?"

"My Father." Molly declared promptly.

"Pah! Fathers don't count- especially in your case, as it is exceedingly clear that you have him wrapped about your little finger. No," he continued as she opened her mouth to retort, "I can say with great authority that the sexes have little reason to mix other than the reason of marriage, and therefore of copulation. I, for example, have but the one friend, and he is a _he."_

Molly felt her eyebrows disappearing into her hairline at his ludicrous conclusions, and proceeded to rejoin with a cool, "Well! I must say it is strikingly obvious why you have but the _one friend,_ Mr. Holmes- and I assume he must take part in this mysterious work of yours!"

"You are correct: Dr. Watson is an indispensable colleague, and on top of that he shares my flat. He is also _my friend."_

"And what is it, exactly, that you and Dr. Watson _do_ , then? Clearly it is not hospital work, as you are not a Doctor yourself."

"Quite right, Miss Hooper, quite right: I am a _Consulting Detective_." He said the words with such pomp and precision, that she could hardly imagine them without capitals. She fought to keep the giggle creeping its way up her throat from being heard; but alas, it wasn't to be. Molly laughed openly, her eyes crinkling in mirth at the ridiculous arrogance of the man. He shot her a glance then, his lips twisting in consternation, and her eyes registering in his the distress of wounded pride.

"Problem?" he asked her succinctly, snipping the end from the word.

"No-o, no, forgive me, Mr. Holmes- you are just so very, so very…"

"What am I?" he asked again, staring down at his long hands. The sight of him, so suddenly gone from a proud bird to a wilted flower smote at her heart, and she resolved to be kinder to the poor man.

"You are proud, Mr. Holmes, very proud. But perhaps you have reason to be that I am not familiar with. Would you describe to me what it is that a Consulting Detective does? Is it similar to the work of a Private Detective?"

He leaned towards her then, his keen eyes on her face, as if to determine the sincerity of her words. The earnestness must have been written plainly on her face, for he spoke finally, "It is similar, but not altogether the same. When the Inspectors of Scotland Yard are out of there depth- which is to say on an almost routine basis- they contact me."

"So you solve crimes for a living?"

"I do."

"And why is it that you are not an Inspector yourself, then?"

He smiled at her excitedly, pushing a rampant curl back from his forehead. "Well done, Miss Hooper, you're asking the right questions. They ask me because I am, simply put, the best."

"The best," Molly repeated, amused at his enthusiasm.

"Yes, the best. You see, I have devoted the greater part of my life to the _Science of Deduction._ I can read people, situations, objects, based on observation, and create a larger and more connected picture. Ordinary people are horribly unobservant, which is why Scotland Yard can hardly locate a stolen loaf of bread without my help."

"And what have you deduced about me, Mr. Holmes?" Molly challenged him boldly. Her face was open and questioning, and full of devilish mirth at her imprudent question. He shot her a quick smirk before his eyes narrowed on her. With an agility of words that was astonishing, he shot off rapidly:

"I know that your style of dress and the dressing of your hair are done in a manner most suggestive of convenience of movement. Your hair is braided and pinned neatly, but hardly fashionably: there are no curls waving about your face in the current style, and therefore it is likely that you keep yourself busy and have no use for frivolities. The stays of your corset are not cinched too tightly, indicative of discomfort in poring over books- the corset cuts deeper into the stomach in these positions, if I am not mistaken. Your right hand bears clear signs of frequent penning; so not just study and writing, but sketching as well- there, you see, the small lump before the first joint of the middle finger on the right hand. You also have ink stains, but that is too simple; doesn't count. You've spoken with high regard of two doctors now, your father, and Dr. Watson, whom you've never met: clearly this is a position you hold in the highest esteem. And now we come to the root of it: you're twenty-five, unmarried, and your Mother is clearly throwing you at any bachelor on two legs- or perhaps not even that- with or without the benefit of a fortune. Take myself, for example: I'm hardly a prime candidate, as the bulk of my income still resides with my Aunt. I share a flat with another man, am scarcely a proper gentleman, and am known to run about London solving crimes- hardly traits to recommend a man. So why try me? You are a woman clearly possessing of a middling to fair amount of beauty- no discernible disfigurements or unsightly moles- and considerable mental faculty. Then there is the fact to consider that you have no feasible _interest_ in being married. So what can we conclude? That you are a highly intelligent woman who has no care for the domestic, but endeavors to learn the physician's trade. You, Miss Hooper, are a woman of medicine and science: _am I wrong?"_

The silence that held for all of a moment was ripe with amazement. "W-why, Mr. Holmes," Molly stammered, "you have me to a tee!"

He allowed himself a satisfied smile before sitting back against the bench. "Have I gotten anything wrong?"

"You did not- it would seem by your observations, that as a woman, I am hopeless!" she sighed, allowing herself to shrink somewhat, twisting her hands in consternation.

"Don't be preposterous. You'd be wasted as a wife, clearly. What interests you most then, Miss Hooper?"

"Anatomy, I suppose," she answered carefully. "I find the physicality of the human body extraordinary, and only wish I could one day study the true thing properly."

He snorted suddenly, folding his arms and looking properly gratified. "I had my suspicions, but I am glad you confirmed them. There, see, an Inspector would hardly believe your penchant for anatomy even if you were to be found elbow deep in a cadaver."

She could not stem the bright, bubbling laughter that spilled from her lips at the image. "Oh..oh!" She laughed, and he turned to look quizzically at her, his brows furrowing. "Have I done something amiss again?"

"Oh, no, Mr. Holmes- I cannot make you out! You are without doubt the most egotistical man I have ever met, and yet- I confess, I like you. And you are right, I do not make a habit of befriending men."

The smile he gave her was warm, and he rose from the bench, extending his hand to her. She took it cautiously, and stood beside him in the wind-nipped air. "It is not often that I have the pleasure of being liked, Miss Hooper. Thank you. I shall cherish the thought, if you promise to never indulge in ideas of marrying me."

"Agreed, and likewise, Mr. Holmes," she assented, her expression both sincere and affectionate. He bent to kiss her hand swiftly, his eyes never leaving her face, and she could not stop the blush from rising to her cheeks.

"Well," he said, dropping her hand promptly and turning to gaze back at the house, "We've probably given the old magpies suitable fodder for gossip based on the amount of time we have been conversing; I suggest we go back in, you're clearly chilled and I do not have anything to offer you in the way of warmth."

And with these words he smirked at her, and proceeded to charge down the garden path without waiting. She grinned, and followed quickly in his wake.

As they again entered the drawing room, Mr. Holmes announced, "I've had enough of country air for the day, Aunt Violet; I'm quite ready to leave." He stooped to retrieve the long case from it's place against the bookshelf, and tucked it under his arm.

"Oh, but they haven't yet heard you play!" Exclaimed Mrs. Vernet, half rising from her seat in surprise. "Did you know, Mrs. Hooper, he plays the violin marvelously."

"And it will _wait,_ Madam! Come- "

"Oh but _Sherlock,_ " Mrs. Vernet persisted, but his imperious expression brooked no argument. She pursed her lips, but relented, dropping her half-eaten biscuit into the saucer with a clatter. "Very well, then, I'm afraid we must take our leave, Mrs. Hooper. Oh, Margaret dear, I've just told your Mother that we will be hosting a ball; it is in three week's time, I do hope you can come."

"Certainly, Marm, we would be delighted!" replied Molly with true sincerity. It was not often that any real form of entertainment was to be found anywhere near Dartmoor, and it was a chance to speak and make acquaintance with many a young person- including, the fleeting thought darted through her brain, the peculiar Mr. Holmes.

"Sherlock will be in attendance, if I have anything to do with it, won't you- oh, but he's gone already, I'm sure if I don't collect my things this instant he will have left me altogether at the mercy of your hospitality! Do excuse us- Mrs. Hooper, it was _such_ a pleasure, let us make a habit of this."

"The pleasure was entirely mine, Mrs. Vernet! And I do hope our little project comes to fruition," exclaimed Mrs. Hooper moving forward to clasp her hand warmly. "Our best to Mr. Holmes, wherever he has run off to," she chuckled, and Mrs. Hooper and Molly were quite quickly left in an empty drawing room. Molly sighed, shaking her head slightly, as if to make sense of the odd afternoon she had just passed.

"That Mr. Holmes," Mrs. Hooper began slyly, "He is a curious one, is he not?"

"He is a beguiling man, Marm," Molly said with a small smile, "And I, so it would seem, am a beguiling woman."


	3. An East Wind Blows

**III. An East Wind Blows**

The life of a woman devoid of a husband is very often considered a dull one. Molly Hooper objected: for though she fought with every fiber of her being against the incessant pull and dread of boredom, (as that is where the demons lie,) she sallied forth on a flood of intellect, willing it to land her on more engaging shores.

Thus it was that she both loved and loathed the entrance of Mr. Holmes into her life. With one short interview he had painted the walls of her determined learning into the vibrancy of burning questions; while on the other hand she despised what this proved: that outside influence,be it from a man or _not_ a man, was desperately vital in her education.

Nearly a fortnight had passed and she had seen neither hide nor hair of him; though at times, as the light grew dim over the moors, she glimpsed from her window the figure of a man. Far in the distance the figure moved, whacking about the heather and clambering upon the boulders.

Despite the lack of his continued presence, Mrs. Hooper had not ceased to speak of him, noting this and that about Mr. Holmes; how Molly and he would make splendid children, whether or not the wedding ought to be at the local parish, and other such drivel. Molly bore these chatterings tight-lipped and without complaint, though she often found herself growing cross at the very thought of him. On this particular day, she hurried out the back door the moment Mrs. Hooper's back was turned, ("Oh, but Molly dear, you would make _such_ a vision in white,") and scrambled over the gate (it squeaked loudly if opened properly,) and out into the country.

"The absolute _nerve_ ," she muttered under her breath, treading carelessly on any weed or flower that dared cross her path. The clean air invaded her mind, clearing the cobwebs and dust of gossip from the nethermost corners. Exercise, she noted, always did one good; time became open and unoffending in the expanse of the rugged landscape. She followed the trail with determined steps ever upwards, towards an outlook she loved best. The craggy boulders stood like broken teeth against the cool horizon, and she shuddered suddenly as a gust of wind blew it's searching fingers through the thick wool of her shawl. As she glanced at the sun hidden behind the thin sweeping clouds, she had the sudden notion that _people_ , humans beings, had lived and worshipped and existed on these moors for far longer than she could ever imagine. The breeze grew chill, and she pulled her shawl closer.

At last she found her destination, a great slab of boulder that continued in an inexorable pull to the sky, looking down upon the continuation of stone and heather and nothing. The blustery air tugged rogue tendrils from the braids pinned high above her forehead and whipped them about her face. She felt queer, and alone, and, eyes darting quickly, she wondered if the little folk of the tales were really so far gone; for in this place, she would not be so surprised if she happened across a ring of faerie stones and was whisked far away.

 _Molly…_

She whipped her head around, heart pounding wildly in her chest- but there was nothing. The stillness of quaking grasses concealed naught but the creeping insects, and high above her, a bird wheeled. It let out a shriek, piercing in its strength.

 _Molly…_

She trembled, taut as a bow string, and wondered if at any moment she might burst from the anxiety that drenched her, chilling her very soul. She had heard it, far away on the phantom wing of that bird… Her mind was empty, and raw, and she could do nothing but feel the rushing of the wind as it raked with wraith-like fingers at her body…

"Miss Hooper!"

Her knees buckled beneath her, and darkness claimed her.

It felt like a very long time before she became aware, slowly, of the warmth of fingertips at her throat. They pressed, gently, and then were gone; then brushed against the tip of her nose and hovered over her mouth. Molly's eyes snapped open suddenly, and she met the startled gaze of Mr. Holmes. She was surprised to see his eyes were an odd, colorless sort of blue, as they widened in the shock of contact. He jerked his hand back and spoke slowly, "I was checking for your pulse, and to be sure that you were breathing, Miss Hooper. Forgive me; I have startled you, and you are clearly unwell."

"Oh," she gasped breathlessly, "Oh, it's you, Mr. Holmes..." She clutched her head as she sat upright slowly, wincing as a headache bloomed in her skull. "No, it was not you, don't be alarmed; I thought I heard...something..." she mumbled, avoiding his eye. Embarrassment could not begin to describe her emotions, and she pushed herself to her feet, swaying slightly. He made no movement to steady her, she noted with a grim smile- just as well, the man looked more uncomfortable than she felt, twisting his lips into a mien of uncertainty. It suddenly made her furious, that this man, of all men, had intruded upon her at the very moment of weakness in which she would not wish to be seen by her closest friend.

"Why are you here?" she demanded of him, straightening herself to the best of her ability. The corners of her vision were still dotted with flecks of dark color, and she grimaced as it occurred to her that she would not be entirely able to walk the long distance back home without his assistance.

He raised his brows at her, the discomfort dropping from his posture with little effort. "I have as much right to be here as you," he replied dryly, and turned to face into the rushing air. "It is this damnable East Wind," he muttered, scowling at the open expanse of country laid before him.

"What do you mean?" she asked, coming to stand beside him. She wobbled as she drew near, cursing silently as Mr. Holmes sighed in exasperation. "Don't be ridiculous, Molly, there's no need to stand on ceremony- here." And with that he seized her hand, tucking it into the crook of his elbow while he stuffed both of his own hands into his pockets.

"Mr. Holmes, this is… _indecorous,_ " she hissed, glaring at him; but he scarcely spared her a glance. "It doesn't seem as you've any other choice, have you? You can barely stand."

"But I have not given you permission to use my Christian name!" she spat, more angry at the seeming helplessness of her condition than at him, her would-be rescuer.

"Yes, well," he grinned, "One does take liberties,"

"You expect me to call you Sherlock? Or _William?_ " She shrilled incredulously.

"The East Wind," he spoke unhurriedly over her, "is supposedly a terrifying force that lays waste to all in its path. It seeks out the unworthy and plucks them from the Earth..." He paused, as if remembering something from long ago, before glancing at her with a crooked smile. "A bedtime story, my brother used to tell me in the dark as children…Was the East Wind speaking to you, Molly?" She turned, ready to accost him for speaking of her episode with such demeaning implications- she was _not_ a child, nor a _mere woman_ \- but as she met his eyes for the second time, she was struck by the sincerity of his gaze. It caused a great pang to run through her- and she was not entirely sure what it meant.

"You never said why you were here." she said instead, averting her eyes from the scrutiny of his stare. Always, she felt that he could see her every movement, every motion of her inner workings- and she would keep those to herself as long as she was able.

"Is it a crime to have a walk? Enjoy the country air and all that nonsense?" he rejoined, looking back over the moors. "Come; the light is beginning to fade, and your familiarity with the land is of no use to me when you are not in full working order." he said briskly, tugging at her to move alongside him. "Besides, there's a dead rodent just up that bit of hill that looks as if it's been savaged by another wild creature, and I want a better look." She sighed, the hint of a smile tugging at her lips as she said, "It was most likely a merlin, they are common in these parts." Then, biting her lip and averting her glance, she spoke in a low voice, "I will accept your help…Sherlock. Thank you."

"The pleasure is all mine, Miss Hooper," he smirked, and together they picked their way through the gnarled grass and overturned stones, back along the scarce track. As their forms retreated, the little folk eyed them and tittered behind their hands, tucked away, as they were, in the secret of faerie.


	4. Of Mothers and Wives and Phantom Men

**A/N: to Kathmak, and I suppose anyone else who was concerned about Molly fainting: no, she's not ill! I'm chalking it up to overwrought nerves. Take a spooky place like that, and couple it with being alone as well as an active imagination..it's enough to freak anyone out! Also, disclaimer: the views expressed here are not my own, but the character's, and are reflected by the time period. Thank you again to everybody who's been reading and reviewing! :)**

 **IV. Of Mothers and Wives and Phantom Men**

Sundays were never a pleasant affair. It was not that Molly was derisive of God, on the contrary: it was simply that she disliked the Pastor intensely. His condescending tone, at once indulgent and patronizing, was something she could not give herself over to with the honesty she so valued. But a night spent in the carefree pleasure that dancing might afford must be balanced with the affairs of the soul; and so to church she must go, before the evening's ball seized her attention completely.

As she tread the cobblestone path winding its careful way towards the church, she dawdled behind the brisk pace Mrs. Hooper had set, kicking at the smaller stones. "Hurry up, Molly, we will be late!" exclaimed Mrs. Hooper, tugging Dr. Hooper alongside her as if he were a small child.

"Coming, Marm," she called in a sing-song voice, as she attempted to make her footsteps as small as possible. But no matter the size of her steps, they did inevitably bring her to the entrance of the small church, where the Pastor stood in all his pompous benevolence. His presence served to hold the doors open as much as to greet the congregation, and she scrutinized him for all of a moment, attempting to read by his manner what the subject today's sermon would be. He was a small and sallow man, with the shrewd face of a weasel and a vacant glance that seemed to nevertheless hone in on the most unwanted of aspects. The wind whipped her skirts into a frenzy as she approached, the ribbons of her bonnet fluttering behind her. Dr. and Mrs. Hooper had already disappeared into the depths of the church, and Molly hurried after, dropping a hasty, "Good morning, Pastor Nathan," in the hopes that he would not have time to begin a conversation.

But he spoke quickly, "I trust you are well, Miss Hooper?" leaving her with no choice but to turn, as she glanced at him in distaste. "You do look a bit pale," he remarked, his nasal voice lifting with the curl of his lips.

"I am well," Molly shot back crossly, then sighed at the Pastor's knowing smile.

"Ah, I believe I've seen this demeanor in a young lady before, I know the signs," he replied with a sly look, tapping his nose with one pale finger. "You've met Mrs. Vernet's nephew, the young Mr. Holmes, have you not? Striking fellow. Mrs. Vernet herself has informed me of the... _possibilities..._ " Molly stifled a groan swiftly; had the woman nothing better to do than to gossip with the Pastor?

"Of course," continued Pastor Nathan, "I have yet to meet the man myself, but one knows, one knows…Oh, well, I suppose the sermon won't read itself, will it…" he smiled once again, and slunk off to the pulpit, leaving Molly fuming. She gathered her skirts to herself with more force than intended, and seated herself alongside her parents in the hard wooden pews. The temerity of the man! True, he had known her since birth, but the implications were absolutely _outrageous_. Was the whole of Dartmoor determined to get her married?

Pastor Nathan climbed to the pulpit laboriously, puffing a bit more than was perhaps healthy for a man of his years; but reach his goal he did and, without further ado, he fixed the congregation with a vapid, magnanimous expression. "The utmost of a woman's character," he began, "is expressed in the duties of daughter, sister and, eventually, wife and mother. It is secured by soft attraction and virtuous love."

Molly bit hard upon her lower lip in an effort to keep her face stoic, and glared at the little man. Every Sunday was an exercise in patience, as she could often catalogue a dozen more interesting things she could be doing in her head; but this Sunday it seemed that Pastor Nathan had prepared his sermon _especially_ for her. He looked at her pointedly as he continued,

"If a woman happens to have a particular superiority- for example, a profound mind- it is best kept a profound secret. For in a woman's most vital role is not found the treacherous talent of learning, but the gentleness of domesticity, and simple accomplishment. This strength must be cultivated with a sweet temper..."

The wind, that irresistible power of nature that breathes furious life into the most inanimate of things, chose this moment to hurl itself upon the little building with primal force, leaving the parishioners breathless and uneasy. It whistled through the cracks and crannies of the old stone, giving the walls ancient voice: and speak they did, with the moans of a structure that had left its marks in centuries past.

Those living in Dartmoor were familiar with the wind in all its formidable aspects, and so should not have allowed themselves to be so easily swayed- but there was something sinister in the deep groans; something not altogether of Nature. And so the Pastor faltered in his speech, and the congregation shifted anxiously in their seats. In Molly it brought an agitation bordering on pain, for again it was that same chilling wind that lurked on the moor, brushing past her cheek like a lover's soft hand.

 _Molly…_

She squeezed her eyes shut, moving her lips in silent prayer. For here was a house of God, and no East Wind would reach its spectral fingers here. The Pastor cleared his throat tentatively, and began again, his voice creaking like a tree in a gale.

 _Molly…_

It whispered past her ear, and she turned, eyes blazing, to face her phantom that dared lay foot in a holy house.

The figure of a man, dark and stooped, was framed against the door. He had not been there only moments before, she was sure of it; yet the sinister aura that surrounded him caused her breath to catch painfully in her chest. Straightening slowly, he threw back his shoulders, creating an elegant silhouette against the edges of the church. He twisted his neck methodically, popping the pockets of air free from their trapped apertures. But his head then bore itself steadily up, and he looked upon her: and it was a dead, black stare that gazed at her, drawing her very soul into its depths.

In that moment that was an eternity, she was transfixed: it was as if she glimpsed a dream world where time meant nothing but dread. She could not think but to lose herself in the dark pools of his eyes- and only when her breath grew short could she recall herself at all. She drew a great gasp then, sucking in the air grown thick about her, and wrenched her eyes from the man. Glancing about, it seemed to her that none other than herself had seen him; and for a brief, fleeting moment, she wondered if she were going mad.

"Oh!" The Pastor wailed, and her attention was caught once again, "But it was Woman who was the downfall of Man, and erelong the Garden, too, became withered and dry..."

Gently, the sharp air blew itself with delicate haste across the nape of her neck, and she turned once more- but her phantom had disappeared, leaving only a fog of disquiet billowing in his wake.


	5. An Amiable Man Could Not Object

**A/N: I have a concert tonight, and yet I'm still posting; so here's the deal: you read and, hopefully, like the chapter, but then AFTER you read it, I'm demanding everyone send good vibes my way so I don't miss that stupid last note of the Franck Sonata like I seem to do at every freaking opportunity! I'm relying on you, people! Oh, and, enjoy and review and all that :)**

 **V. An Amiable Man Could Not Object**

A country ball is an affair of laughter and pleasantry. It is all that can be perfectly accomplished in the way of young people making the acquaintance of one another; of sitting down together, or dancing together, in a charming and affable fashion.

It was with this in mind that Molly Hooper found herself giving more care to her appearance than she was often wont to. The stays of her corset were pulled perhaps a touch tighter than she was accustomed to, but as she allowed herself a peek in the mirror's tarnished reflection, she could not help but admire the effect. Though she had scorned Mrs. Hooper's suggestion of a bustle ( _Oh but they're all the rage in London, dear,)_ she felt quite pretty in the pale green silk she had chosen for the occasion. The opportunity did not often arise to dress in such a conscientious fashion, and so she took full advantage of it, working the usual coilings of her braids into an elegant coif, a tumble of ringlets framing her face. The lopsided smirk of Mr. Holmes darted in the furthermost crannies of her mind, and as they crept forward playfully, she pushed them firmly back to the cricks and corners and bade them _stay there;_ but the smile that stole over her face betrayed her thoughts.

The ride was a long one, made longer by the incessant chattering of Mrs. Hooper; but arrive they finally did, as the carriage clattered up the extensive drive. A long reflecting pool dominated the front, the speckled flames of sheltered candles lighting the way. She had never seen such a grand house, and was reminded once again how very little and plain her life was: Miss Margaret Hooper, the odd duck verging on spinsterhood. The delicate silk gown she had flattered herself in only an hour before now seemed homely and overly modest and, as she stepped from the carriage in her neat little shoes, she shrank from the grandeur in shame. She could not understand the reasons why she and Mr. Holmes were being pushed together; she was hardly of the same rank as Mrs. Vernet. _Perhaps,_ the niggling voice in her head spoke, _he is just as hopeless as you._ Mrs. Vernet had not been blessed with children of her own, and doted on her nephew; it was likely that this contributed in her attempts to see him settled. Somehow the thought heartened her, and she threw her shoulders back in defiance. She was a woman of true accomplishment, and would not be ashamed by the plainness of her manner and dress.

"Ah, Dr. and Mrs. Hooper, and Miss Margaret!" shrilled the voice of Mrs. Vernet as they ascended the rich trappings of the main stairs. Molly glanced up to see the dowager standing regally at the top of the stairs, her plump, bare arms glistening white in the glow her jeweled dress seemed to cast. "So good of you to come! Please, come in; refreshments are further along, and if I am not mistaken the musicians will begin soon. Oh, and, Margaret dear," beamed Mrs. Vernet, the cloud of curls adorning her head wobbling precariously, "I believe Sherlock is within as well- that is, if you had a mind to look for him." She traded a glance with Mrs. Hooper which was not nearly as discreet as they were inclined to believe, the unmistakeable twitching of their lips betraying barely withheld grins.

Women are a curious breed: and as a woman, Molly knew this to the utmost. There are but the two sexes and yet, a great chasm divides us at the outset. This is not so simple a matter as to simply point a scolding finger at one member of the gender or the other; because remember, dear reader, that three of those fingers will always point back at yourself. This chasm, Molly realized, was exacerbated by not only the male's predilection for keeping the female under his thumb, but by the female in allowing the pattern to continue, as wells as condoning its value in society. It was with this in mind that she privately reaffirmed her views on the state of marriage, and looked crossly upon the women who would so arrest her ambitions. _But,_ whispered the sneaky little voice lingering in the back of her head, _it needn't be so black and white; and if it were to come to it, Mr. Holmes seems a man who would never willingly force his hand upon you._ And so she graced Mrs. Vernet with an amicable smile, and continued into the hall.

The musicians, crowded together on a small dais, tuned their instruments haphazardly over the festive murmur of the crowd. Voices caught and whirled, and already laughter rang out in the softly lit hall. She wandered through the throng of Dartmoor society, greeting politely those she knew and trading simple conversation. More than once a lady's feathered hair adornment tickled her nose in passing, and the rustle and careful step of heeled shoes and silks formed a dance all in itself. Naturally, it was the toss of a dark, curled head, and the cut of a deep, rapid voice, that drew her attention: for there he was, the insatiable Mr. Holmes, interrogating the violinist most voraciously. She hid a smile behind her hand, and approached slowly, wending her way through the chattering crowd.

"I am simply asking," came the irritable voice of Mr. Holmes, "why one does not even consider the _possibility_ of employing a string made from another material. Surely in this day and age a musician must be open to using something more sophisticated than a string made of sheep gut; it is perfectly antiquated! Consider: it is true that intestine is flexible, else a man of your girth would be in a fix after consuming an ordinary meal of what is clearly overly adequate proportions. This string has a sweet tone, but ah, the piano, the piano! Picture it, if you will: a steel frame and wire strings, with a _synthetic_ core. And the sound produced is enormous! No richer tone could you possibly find in a pianoforte. Now, the possibilities that could be had from the violin, if only the wire string were employed! But I see my words fall on deaf ears: you've scarcely a practice bruise under that ample chin. No, you are clearly mediocre; a hired player for a country ball, and therefore beneath my scope of interest."

"Well- I- but Sir!" spluttered the poor musician, his face beginning to purple as his fellows sniggered behind his back.

"No, no, I will have none of it," interrupted Mr. Holmes with a wave of his elegant hand, "it hardly matters, not one of these people will listen for anything aside from a beat. Please, my good men: begin." He turned his back on them succinctly and spotted Molly, fighting to hold her laughter in check. His face lit with the innocent joy one often spies in a small boy, when he has found something particularly intriguing and delightful. "Miss Hooper!" he called loudly, causing some of the guests to turn, "I am glad you could be here." He had strode forward with impatient steps and, as if realizing his eagerness was too plain, slowed himself, bowing awkwardly as he met her.

"I am also glad of it," she responded merrily, "although I am not sure your words to that poor man were very kind. Do you not suppose he might play horribly all the night through, if only to spite you?"

"Not if he wishes to be hired again. There, they are playing a theme by Purcell. See how the lines are now being formed to dance: these people barely have ears, but they could not be bothered about them when an air such as this beckons with such spirit. Come, Miss Hooper- there are a number of croquettes at the back that I must sample before they've run off into the digestive systems of the rabble." He bounded towards the heavily laden tables, as Molly carefully lifted the edges of her skirts following after him. The man was a boy at heart, it seemed, and the very thought brought an amused smile to her face.

Mr. Holmes was true to his form: for indeed, he sampled each dish deliberately, scrutinizing the food from every angle before carefully biting, chewing slowly, and finally swallowing. "Whatever do you mean by it?" Molly asked him curiously, as she nibbled at a pie and he examined a half-eaten potato croquette. He glared at the offending item as if it might contain a multitude of secrets within its buttery layers, before carefully replacing it on his plate adorned with the crumbled remnants of his meticulously assembled meal.

"I am cataloguing," he replied decisively. "I do not eat when I work; it slows down the mechanism of my brain. So it goes to follow that when I am _not_ working, I catalogue as many tastes and processes in food as I might- they may one day be of use to me in a case."

"I see," she replied slowly, "But I am not sure that this method makes much sense. It seems to me simply superstition!"

He waved a hand dismissively, ignoring the last completely before answering, "On the contrary: one never knows exactly which skill or expertise could mean the difference between a man's life or death. I am a brain, Miss Hooper; the rest of me is a mere appendix. It goes to follow that _taste,_ nor matters of sentiment, matter not a whit to me unless they pertain to a case. And because we may not discriminate in which knowledge might be useful, I endeavor to catalogue it all- right down to this potato croquette."

She shook her head at him, smiling in bemusement. "You fascinate me, Mr. Holmes- that is to say, I should very much like to see you work, one day- and perhaps even help you, if I may," He was, she thought suddenly, a force to be reckoned with; a wholly unordinary man who might change her views of the male gender entirely. He cared not for matters of equality, or inequality, but simply recognized in her a sharpness and wit, and perhaps a kindred spirit, and accepted her for who she was. She became aware of the sharp look in his eye, and wondered if he, too, were coming to the same conclusion. He narrowed his eyes at her as she flushed, as if deducing her innermost thoughts. She began to shrink away in discomfort; but then thought better of it, squaring her shoulders and looking him straight in the eye, blushes be damned. A slow smile crept over his face as he answered slowly, "That would be well, Miss Hooper; that would be well indeed."

As they studied each other, something inexpressible changed between them; some small and fragile flame flickered into being, carefully unheeded by both these young people whose souls had given it form. "I..." she stammered after a moment, searching desperately for words as the silence between them began to claim importance. The question that finally stumbled from her lips was one she had not given thought to, but came unbidden in a fit of boldness, "Can I persuade you to dance?" Her eyes grew wide and horrified as it slipped from her mouth, betraying every thought that had been tucked into the corners of her perceptions.

But the response came easily to his tongue, and was accompanied by a smirk, as if he knew how his own words would affect her. "No, I am afraid I will have to decline: I abhor dancing in all its forms."

"Really, Mr. Holmes!" she exclaimed, "You betray yourself: I can see at this instant your fingers twitching in time to the music."

He laughed then, a deep chuckle that made his visage grow lighthearted, and she could not but join with him, sure of the echoes in her own expression. "Very well," he replied, "You have caught me. But I simply cannot tolerate these country line dances! They are inelegant, and absurd."

"They are not, Mr. Holmes: observe. Where you see inelegance, I see only the harmony and charm of people taking pleasure in the accomplishment of movement. Come now; an amiable man could not object!"

He looked down upon her then, and extended one long hand, his expressive fingers betraying him as both scientist and artist. Mirth decorated his features still, and he spoke low, "Are you so sure, Miss Hooper, that I am an amiable man?"

"Not entirely," she rejoined, her eyes sparkling, "But you will have to do." And with that she let him lead her to the floor, where they joined the lines of elegant dancers.

It is rare that we, as humans, say what we mean. This may lie at fault with the absurdity of society; the intricate layerings of words that we introduce into our vocabulary to be sure of an absolute lack of offense. Words may be limiting, and serve only to frame a verbal exchange; but often they skirt around the edges, leaving truth to reside in the negative space of ink and paper.

Ah, but expression, my friends: that is a different matter entirely. Expression is that which makes us human; expression is the truth which lies at the heart of art. This truth can be told in any number of ways, be it in the touch of palm to palm, or the meeting of gleaming eyes between kindred souls. And this truth was communicated now in the quiver and flow of music and dance, meant for only they two. Molly had grown fearless in the light of this honesty, and she found Sherlock had done the same; the flicker of flame grew between them, nurtured and blown into a bright flare between their cupped palms. Their eyes locked, and burned with every slow twirl, every careful step laden with meaning. Her thoughts had grown still, and she could not but simply allow herself to _feel_ , perhaps for the first time in her life. Every glance held a lifetime in its embrace, and she found herself breathless at the sheer wonder of ecstatic blood pumping through her veins. The rustle of her skirts swept past her legs, the coolness of his skin laid flat against her own..

As the dance ended, they were both suddenly lost in the absence of music; they had become but two ships on serene waters, cut abruptly free from their moorings. They broke apart awkwardly, and she glanced at the floor, adjusting the tug of a misplaced strand of hair. He scuffed at the polished wood with the sole of his shoe, and it was this time he who floundered in the search for words. At last he spoke, in a voice both uncomfortable and sincere, "You look lovely tonight, Molly."

She smiled up at him tentatively, with true warmth in her glance. He had captured her this night, she knew it now with a certainty she could not deny. But before her very eyes, he changed from the strange, charming young man she had grown to know and care for, into a cold and derisive Mr. Holmes she was not sure she knew at all. His eyes turned inward, shuttered and hard; his demeanor became that of a much older and disdainful man. He disappeared into himself with such practiced ease that the transformation jarred her completely, and she took a step back. It had all happened within the space of a moment, and he continued speaking quickly, looking away. "That is, of course, physiologically speaking, you look…well. Am I correct in assuming that you have just completed your menses?"

 _He will always be one to keep you on your toes,_ she thought viciously, as her expression darkened. "Mr. Holmes, those words are- "

"A letter, Mr. Holmes," interrupted the voice of a flustered servant, bobbing by his elbow. Where he had come from was anybody's guess, as she had been irrevocably focused on the matter at hand. Mr. Holmes looked down his nose at the servant, who anxiously proffered a silver tray on which lay a singularly unspectacular looking letter. He looked at it irritably before snatching it up, breaking the seal with annoyance. "I will take this in my room. Miss Hooper, if you will excuse me- " and he turned on his heel before she could say a word, beating a hasty retreat by the side door. The servant glanced at her apologetically before disappearing, and she was left, quite suddenly, in a room which had felt warm and joyful only moments before.

Molly fought to keep her expression smooth, the turmoil of fury roiling in her breast at odds with the need to keep a calm exterior. The sheer depravity of his declaration had left her unsettled; for it was not the words themselves that had disturbed her so, but the coldness in which they had been uttered. It was as if he had deliberately raised a wall by leaving all sense of propriety trampled in the dust. Perhaps he feared he had made his feelings toward her too plain; or perhaps they had not been his feelings at all. She cared not, she decided stubbornly, and made her way to one of the many chairs lining the room. Her footsteps felt heavy and reluctant, and she seated herself without much care to how it must look. Once again she had become a strange, lonely woman, with nothing but the thoughts in her head to drive her forward. She wondered privately if she ought even to address Mr. Holmes, if he ever reappeared

A shadow crept over her as she mused, though Molly scarcely glanced up at the change of lighting. "May I have the pleasure of this dance, Miss?" said the shadow, in a voice light and smooth as glass. A gloved hand had extended itself into the periphery of her vision, unfurling its graceful fingers; but she paid it no heed, allowing herself instead to brood. "No," she ground out irritably. "I am sorry to say that I am in no mood to dance. You will have to forgive me."

But as she raised her head to address the meddler in her affairs, her breath caught in her throat. The hand had disappeared, but the man it belonged to stepped closer, into the tight circle of her comfort. He was without a doubt the specter from the Church, come to greet her in the flesh. His manner was polished and mild, his figure dark and refined, and he leaned towards her, the blackness of his eyes peering into her own. "It is a pity," he spoke in an airy voice- but did not continue. She found herself caught once again in the depth of his stare; and a hidden malice was found within, at odds with his refined demeanor. Molly felt suddenly as a mouse does when it has come face to face with the cat; but this man was a clever animal, one who was willing to take time with his prey. The man took another step closer, so close that she could see every one of his dark lashes, and the set of his severe, yet sensual, mouth. She stood swiftly, her own eyes darkening in panic as they darted past him- but her back felt the cold finality of the wall behind her, and though the room was full of people, none had eyes for the scene being played under their noses. She sidled discreetly along the wall, anxiety flooding through her as he stepped ever closer, a predatory smile curling the corners of his lips. In a fit of agitation she pushed fiercely at a chair to open her way, tipping it with a loud _crash._ Only now had attention been called to herself, and whispers began to fill the hall as eyes turned their way; but the man spoke again, stepping quickly to block her passage one last time, caring not for the hasty steps of men and servants come to usher him away. "I will ask once more, in the future, Miss Hooper... just once. Good evening." And as she opened her mouth to ask how he knew her name, he whirled upon her, disappearing into the depths of the room and out into the night.

On steps grown strong from adrenaline, she flew after him, one hand gripping her skirts in a way she knew was entirely indecent; but the knowledge held no flame to the need to know who this man was, or what his attentions to her meant. She followed him though he had left no trace, hastening down the stairs and out the great doors- but he had been swallowed into the night. Her blood pounded in her ears, and she _knew_ , deep in the recesses of her soul, that in this man's presence was something that had been waiting for her; a secret fear that had been locked away all her life, only to be finally freed. He was the storm in her dreams, the whisper on the East Wind; and he had come, at last, to pluck her from the close embrace of Dartmoor. A scream should have passed her lips, as her eyes grew wild, and the lurch of her heart grew louder still- but she made no noise, and instead gasped one heavy breath, and then another. If the steady cultivation of her character had taught her anything, it was that a woman in a man's world _must be strong_. She had grasped this knowledge readily, and now used it to steel herself. She was Molly Hooper; she _knew_ who she was, and just as no man was her keeper, she would face her fears herself. Slowly, her pulse steadied, and the night stilled into the whisper of the breeze over the reflecting pool. It was with grim determination that she stared out into the darkness, seeking answers that would come only with time.

So intent was she, that she did not hear the steps of Mr. Holmes as he came to stand behind her, his eyes narrowing into the dark. "What is it?" he asked sharply, glancing at her with furrowed brows.

"Oh, heavens, Mr. Holmes!" she gasped, her hand flying to her breast. "It is only you- you gave me a fright!"

"Did you see something? You look nearly white as a sheet," he moved further down the drive as if to inspect the very shadows, his footsteps crunching against the crushed stone.

"Nothing, it is nothing!" she said quickly. He turned to look at her queerly, pacing back to stand in front of her- but then shook his head, as if thrusting whatever idea he had had firmly away. "I must leave, Miss Hooper- Molly- but I- "

"Leave? But to where, at this hour?" she queried concernedly. In her encounter with the dark man, she had all but forgotten about her exchange with Mr. Holmes; but his agitation was so intensely pronounced that her disappointment in him was brought back to the the forefront. She pursed her lips and looked directly into his face: his eyes, so different from that of her ghost, were shot through with shame, and she was glad to see it. He had become again _Sherlock_ , perhaps a bit rough about the edges, but the coldness had dropped from his manner; once again he seemed human.

"Molly," he said in a low voice, "There is a case, in London, that will not wait. That letter you saw- it was from Dr. Watson. I must go, at once." He had the grace to look disappointed, though all the while she could see the cogs of his mind beginning to whir in anticipation. "Oh," she replied, looking away into the murky darkness of the reflecting pool. "What sort of case?" She could not keep the dejection from her voice, and a smile twitched at his lips.

" _Murder_ ," he replied enthusiastically, his clear eyes twinkling, "And a good one, at that: a classic locked door mystery!"

"How intriguing," she mused, finding it hard to be untouched by his growing energy. "You must write me, then, Mr. Holmes, and inform me of how it was done."

"Molly, please," he said earnestly, his expression suddenly serious, "I am Sherlock, to you. If you...wish it, that is. Will you do this for me?"

"Will I see you again, then… Sherlock?" she replied after a moment, a hint of wistfulness touching her voice.

He fixed her with his piercing gaze, and once again they were in that endless dance. He was never one to be tender; but the fixed intensity of his being, coupled with the overwhelming relief of her answer was focused upon her, and the quiver she felt had nothing to do with the soft night's chill. Slowly he raised her hand to his lips, and pressed a warm kiss to it. "You may count on it, Molly." Her lips parted, and in a sudden great rush of want, her gaze wandered to his lips; in that instant, she wondered what it might be like to kiss a man. But he had already darted away, her hand poised in midair from where he had dropped it. "Forgive my earlier behavior, Miss Hooper, it was…unkind of me." he said steadily, and turned to leave, dashing towards the carriage which had begun to clatter up from the stables, his few belongings already strapped high to its roof. The door swung open and, with one foot already in, he turned once again, one brow quirked upward. "Oh, and Molly, it was a truth: you really do look quite… beautiful, tonight," and then the door was slammed, the whips raised, and the horses charged down the drive.

Molly was left in the coolness of the night, the breeze tugging at her curls as she watched the carriage's lantern bob away. It disappeared into the distance, winking at her like so many stars. She turned her face upwards into the sky, basking in the moon's gleaming acceptance, and let out a great sigh. _Yes_ , she thought, releasing herself into the pull of the wind, _This would be a night to remember._


	6. A Wolf at the Door

**A/N: Thank you to all who sent me good vibes the other day! It worked :) Also, I will be taking a month hiatus from this story. Don't worry, I promise it will come back- in a month! But I've run out of my backlog of writing and it's incredibly stressful to keep up with posting once a week. Hope you enjoy the chapter, and review! Review! It helps me write faster and get back to you all. Thank you!**

 **VI. A Wolf at the Door**

 _Dear Miss Hooper,_

 _I have solved that case which called me away in such a hasty fashion. It was, in the end, exquisitely simple; but that is not why I write you now. No, now I write on matters most adroit at turning the edge of boredom, that foul, double-tongued serpent. It is decided: let us test your mettle. I throw at your feet a case: not a difficult one, but a case all the same. I will endeavor to the utmost not to influence your judgement, and will supply you with many details, though the challenge truly lies in reading a scene in its natural state; but alas, it is not to be. You are not here, and we must make do, and hope for the future. Nevertheless, I beg of you to send a return with your thoughts, whatever they might be. Think of it, if you will, as an exercise in mental agility. The life of the Spinster of Dartmoor could hardly be a challenging one; though I grant that you do have a thirst for knowledge which, I must admit, rivals my own- but only in some respects. It is hardly of consequence. I urge you now, conjure this up in the flighty head that sits upon your shoulders:_

 _A body lies in a crumpled position on the cobblestones of an alley, exactly seven feet and eight inches across. On either side rises a shoddy tenement building; the sort that are barely held together by propped stones, though given the circumstances you doubtless will have to rely on your imagination, cooped up in the country as you are. The air reeks of fish: we are near the docks. The building on the right hand side features a small window, to which it has been claimed our body has fallen out of. The victim lived in this flat with his wife and children. He was not a popular man by any means, and his family allegedly showed frequent signs of abuse. He owed debts to many of his neighbors, and was a known drunk. Beneath the corpse, and indeed, smashed along the entirety of the alley, lies a series of broken bottles._

 _Now we come to the meat of it: there is evidence of trauma at the back of our man's head. Dr. Watson has confirmed that the (quite repugnant) odor that lingers by his mouth is that of liquor, coupled with the vomit that has clearly been wiped away from the lower lip. There are multiple wounds to the front of the torso- twelve in all. Each is between an inch to two inches, and all are of different depths. The largest is on the lower left side of the abdomen. The blood is congealed; there was but a scant amount of it coating the ground. There is no evidence of broken bones, though Dr. Watson informs me there may be fractures present in the limbs._

 _Inspector Lestrade has concluded from this evidence that the man in question was incapacitated by drink, tripped, and in doing so, launched himself out of the open window, whereupon he fell down and into the alley where the glass from the bottles punctured his body. There he was to be found dead the next morning._

 _Well then, Molly; What do you make of it? Murder most foul, or simply the outcome of living as drunkard and thief?_

 _Reply quickly; the criminal classes are remarkably dull at the moment, and I have nothing but this letter, and possibly other unmentionables, to occupy my mind. I must, I fear, light my pipe, and wait impatiently for your answer. So I beg of you, reply quickly, if convenient._

 _S.H._

 _P.S. if inconvenient, send quickly all the same._

Molly smiled to herself as she refolded the letter, letting it rest against the hard wood of the desk. She pressed her fingers against the clean white paper and sighed, wishing she could have seen what he described in the flesh, if only to determine if she could read the puzzle for herself. If she knew the man at all, he had quite probably composed the whole of the letter in his head, mused on it for the space of a minute or two, and then dashed the thing off with hardly a second thought as to her reaction. Her smile broadened as she imagined him puffing at his pipe like an irritable dragon, before launching himself at pen and paper. She opened the letter again, smoothing it flat and bending closer to peer at it. Nodding succinctly, she drew a fresh paper towards her, dipped her pen in the inkwell, and began to write.

 _Dear Mr. Holmes,_

 _The puzzle you have presented me with is an intriguing one. And, as you say, I have only just received your letter, and already am dashing a reply in the hopes that it may alleviate your boredom somewhat. In that vein, you must bear with my meandering 'deductions'. Although I do wonder: what are these unmentionables you speak of? Why, indeed, allude to them at all, if not for the want of them to be mentioned? But there, never mind; I speak truly, for my mind does wander._

 _Allow me, then, to take you through my thoughts:_

 _I foremost ponder this question: murder, or accident? Let us look at the most obvious of indications: why engage the services of Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, if the case was merely one of accidental death? On this alone I might make assumptions; but assumptions are dangerous things, and so I will endeavor to reason by way of the facts you have given me._

 _His family life is not an ideal one. But whose is, when a husband possesses an over-zealous taste for drink? It is clear that his neighbors have a dislike for him. He was, from their own mouths, a drunkard and a gambler, indebted to many; possibly to these same men. We might conclude that the marks born by his wife and children brand him as abusive, and therefore highly unlikely to be popular on these fronts. What have we then? A distinctly unpopular man with not a one to play his advocate._

 _Now, we might consider the body itself. The Inspector argues that the man, thoroughly under the influence of drink, toppled from the third storey window. You cannot see it, Mr. Holmes, but I am smiling: how could it be so predictably simple? You might frown at me now, and exclaim that I mustn't make assumptions: but I have not. Because what of the blood? With the description of a blow to the back of the head, we infer cranial trauma; at the very least, the disruption of blood flow. Head wounds bleed profusely, and yet you have not mentioned the puddle that would surely have leaked from the man's skull if he had cracked it upon the cobblestones. Furthermore, the puncture wounds from the glass were scattered about the front of the torso, and yet the back of the skull suffered the trauma. How could this be possible, unless he had managed to get himself injured on separate occasions? So far as I am aware, if one endeavors to jump from a window to the streets below, only one side of the body lands at a given moment- unless he were a sort of übermensch, which I have a strong suspicion this man was not._

 _And as for the glass pieces: how strong of a likelihood is it that our man fell directly onto those twelve shards, avoiding cuts to any other part of his body? How, indeed, did the broken bottles come to be there? Could he have dropped his own bottle underneath himself, ensuring death by his own means?_

 _Forgive me, I must put aside this letter for a moment. You have presented me with a delightful distraction- perhaps delightful ought not to be the word, but I've an inkling that you might just understand. Needs must, when the devil drives._

She sighed, throwing her pen into the inkwell and twisting her hand in an effort to relieve the cramp. It amused her to no end that Sherlock had thought to lay bare the facts of a case in an effort to see how she would fare. She leaned back into the wood of the old, creaking chair, fingering the edges of her corset in an effort to loosen its poking frame.

The case was an interesting one, never mind that she had hardly had reason to be asked her opinion on a possible murder. Indeed, any circumstance of this nature would be equally as intriguing, for Molly was quickly realizing that the sudden appearance of Mr. Holmes and her subsequent understanding of the man was as interesting an event in her life as there was ever bound to be, forever confined as she was to the space of her parent's home. To be sure, her phantom man's presence was at once thrilling and terrifying, but he had shown not a wisp of himself since vanishing into the night.

Molly irritably pushed all thoughts of her specter aside, rolling her back into a straight posture as the chair groaned ominously beneath her. The letter demanded her attention, and she grasped it again, her lips moving silently as she read his cramped script. _Wounds of varying size; between one and two inches._ But why then such a discrepancy, unless the shards of glass had also been so inconstant in size...?

 _Stab wounds._

Molly abruptly bolted from her seat, ideas cavorting gleefully in her head as she clattered down the stairs in search of a disused bottle.

 **~0~0~**

The bell jangled anxiously, and Mrs. Hooper's hand leapt at the ancient clavichord, wresting a perfectly wretched from its depths. She winced and rose from her seat, her hand fluttered anxiously to her cap as she peered from the window of the drawing room and out into the front of the house. A man stood deliberately at the door, dressed in a dark and heavy frock coat, much too warm for the current season. His head was turned away from her, but he leaned against the door jamb, his legs crossed casually. _Who on Earth...?_

 _"_ Grace!" Mrs. Hooper squawked, "Grace, where are you, you silly girl, there's a gentleman at the door! Let him in, let him in! And find Mr. Hooper, for goodness sake, if he's not gone out…" Fumbling at the knot of her apron, she walked briskly into the kitchen, hanging the utilitarian cloth on the peg near the door. "Have you any idea who he is? Or where Molly is! Heavens, that child will be the death of me! And tea, Grace, tea!" The bell came again as Grace scurried between the door and Mrs. Hooper, who stood flapping her hands and turning in circles, quite unsure of what to do first. "The door! Open the door, you goose!" Mrs. Hooper shrilled, rushing back to the drawing room, at once pinching her cheeks in an effort to bring some color and craning her neck around the corners in the hope that Molly might make a sudden appearance. It was no use; Molly was, she was sure of it, up to no good- and so Mrs. Hooper found herself settled in the drawing room looking quite the picture of a flustered mother hen. Grace flung the door open none too gently, pink in the face herself and, at Mrs. Hooper's raised brow, cast her eyes down, and said primly, "A Mr. Brook to see Dr. Hooper, Marm," Mrs. Hooper's mouth twisted in annoyance, and she let out an irritated sigh. "And here I was wondering if perhaps Molly had a suitor, but never mind; I suspect he is just a patient- "

"Do not take it as a complete falsehood, Mrs. Hooper. I am quite sure that Miss Hooper has suitors in plenty," spoke a smooth, silky voice. Mr. Brook had strode forward into the room, soft as a shadow, so that Mrs. Hooper had not noticed his passage. His eyes gleamed like a wolf at the door as he approached, the soft sleekness of his hair falling into his face as he bent to kiss her hand. Dr. Hooper often had a veritable potpourri of callers at his door, come to complain of various medical ailments; but Mr. Brook was of a different sort entirely. He brought with him a presence both chilly and portentous, possessing a sense of dread that even the vain Mrs. Hooper could not dismiss entirely. But she was a proud woman, and would not be put off by spiritualistic drivel; and so she pasted a bright smile onto her face and replied, "Oh! Do excuse me, Mr. Brook, was it?"

"Indeed, Madam," he replied easily, a vague smile crossing his face as he watched her. He did not speak again, and only lingered beside her, his countenance severe and somehow dire. He was not a tall man, and did not embrace intimidation as one of his characteristics, but unease was a trait which he inspired in Mrs. Hooper. She smiled uncomfortably in response, but was soon forced to cast her eyes elsewhere under the weight of his unflinching gaze, and searched awkwardly instead for a topic of conversation.

"Oh, do sit down, Mr. Brook," she said after a moment, breaking the silence. "I am sure Grace will bring tea shortly; ah, yes, here she is now. Now, how may I help you? I've only just remembered Dr. Hooper is away at the moment, I'm afraid; Mrs. Porter, you know, has narcolepsy, the poor dear, one can only wonder what a dreadful time she must have of it. Imagine! Falling asleep at the drop of a hat, perhaps even in one's own tea!"

"It is no matter, Mrs. Hooper. And if I may take tea, that would be most welcome." He fixed her with a direct stare, the ghost of a smile passing over his face as he sat smoothly. "Is Miss Hooper about? While I am here I should very much like to see her."

"Oh? You've met Margaret then?" She asked cheerily, though the undercurrents of her agitation began to peek through into the sharp tone of her voice.

"I have," he replied, and again said no more. There was something distinctly off-putting about this man; and yet, Mrs. Hooper could not seem to put her finger on it. It was certainly not his appearance, for while he was not what one would call conventionally handsome, there was a languid, silken grace to his manner, as if he could persuade any man or woman to do anything he wished. Indeed, Mrs. Hooper found herself laughing lightly, and pouring the unwanted guest a cup of tea.

They fell into an uncomfortable lull as they sat; or at least this was the case on Mrs. Hooper's end, as she sat with her hands folded neatly in her lap while Mr. Brook serenely sipped at his tea. "And on what business do you wish to see Dr. Hooper?" She spoke finally, in an effort to be amenable. His lips twitched upwards, and his eyes glinted as he leaned forward, settling the fragile cup into its saucer. "That, I fear," he said in his curious, melodious voice, "is a matter which I am not altogether ready to disclose."

There was an almighty crash from the back of the house, starting Mrs. Hooper from her seat. She was suddenly quite glad for her own lack of tea, as the tumultuous din of broken glass on paving stones carried systematically on. " Dear Lord! Please, you must pardon us, Mr. Brook!" she apologized swiftly, rising hastily to peer out into the hall. Not a soul was to be seen, nor was the source of the commotion evident. " _Grace!"_ she shrieked, all thought of propriety flown from her head as her nerves frayed entirely.

"It's Molly, Marm!" came Grace's voice from afar. "She's… I'm not sure what she's doing, Marm!" The sound of breaking glass ceased, only to be followed by a loud _whump_ and crunch.

"Oh for heaven's…Mr. Brook, do excuse- " Mrs. Hooper began, but as she turned, she found Mr. Brook vanished, his cup still steaming in its saucer.

Molly was to be discovered in her room with the window flung wide, her slight body swaying halfway out into the air as she smiled widely down at the small brick path to the garden. A half dozen glass bottle-necks could be spied peering between the paving stones, glittering brightly in the high sun. It was rather a good thing that her father was partial to gin, and indeed made a rather ridiculous show of saving the emptied bottles. She knew there would be hell to pay for this particular experiment; but she took intense, and perhaps brutal, satisfaction in the disruption of a fine, quiet, spring day. There was something so brilliantly vulgar in the act of destruction; ah, but destruction for a specific _end,_ that she could justify, and did so with pleasure. She had filched two tomes from their scant library of fiction: a collected works of Dickens and one of Radcliffe, for they had seemed the heaviest and least used. Reaching to her desk from her perch, she collected the heavier of the two, grinning wildly. She clutched at the window frame with a vice grip, balancing on her toes as she precariously leaned into the wild air, extending the volume out and over the broken glass. Holding her breath, she let it go, and it tumbled from her hands, opening in midair and careening downwards, landing with its pages bent and crusty, the cover splayed on the pavement in a macabre fashion. She grimaced at it; Dickens would surely not be amused. It was a ridiculous experiment, to be sure, but there seemed nothing better to be done, and so she reached for the Radcliffe, lying innocently on her desk. She took it up this time in both her hands and, taking care to hook her stockinged foot around the curtain's pully, and again leaned out of the window, bracing her knees. Down she dropped the book, and the crunch that echoed back to her ears was intensely satisfying. It had landed perfectly on the glass this time, and she nodded to herself in gratification.

" _Molly!"_ The shriek was heard from below, and she scowled, knowing full well that Mrs. Hooper had found her out. It was not unexpected, but nevertheless undesired, and she sighed, turning to smooth her dress and jump from the window seat. But she did not.

The Man stood quietly, just inside the doorway, watching her mildly. Her breath caught in a gasp at the unwanted intrusion, and her mind raced to express the outrage and fear that began to course through her. "Did your experiment work?" he asked her conversationally, but she could not move, transfixed as she was to see him in her home, in the space of her own room. Her lips parted, and the silence was broken only by the muffled oaths of Grace from below. "How did you know it was an experiment?" She asked finally, though she had not moved, the edges of her skirt still clutched in one hand.

"I could only imagine," he replied with a shrewd smile, "that there must be some reason to smash gin bottles and be rid of Dickens, other than the vice of… intemperance. And what, pray tell, was this experiment for? Perhaps it has to do with the industrious Mr. Holmes?"

"It is of no consequence," she snapped, smoothing her skirts and lowering herself to the ground. "You have no right to be here! Why, I do not even know your name, and you dare...! How dare you trespass here! You must leave, sir, immediately!" She trembled at his boldness, but the fact that she had allowed herself to so misrepresent him in her own mind shook her more. He was no apparition, but a man of flesh and blood; and a man, therefore, with but an inconsequential name. And this man stood here, in the privacy of her bedroom, with not a soul aware of the fact.

He took a step closer, and she cursed herself for being cornered by him once again. But she breathed deeply and stood her ground, demanding of him, "You must at least have the decency of giving me your name."

"Gladly!" He replied, his cat-like eyes glimmering. "I am Richard Brook."

"Mr. Brook," she said, abhorring the tremor in her voice, "I demand you leave at once."

He smirked at her then, and quit his approach. "With pleasure, I am sure. Mrs. Hooper and I were just sitting down to tea. I thought I would inquire if you would like to join us. Your Mother made it quite plain only a moment ago that she was not pleased with your... experiment,"

Her mouth went dry, and she blinked up at him, distrustful of his words. "My... Mother invited you to tea?" She asked slowly, her eyes narrowing as her mind raced the through the avenues she knew Mrs. Hooper was likely to follow at the appearance of a single young man in their drawing room. Her glance darted to his left hand, and it was as she feared: ringless. As he caught the direction of her gaze, his smile broadened. "Good, very good!" He crooned, "I am, indeed, unmarried." Though he no longer stalked her, she felt cold dread bloom in her breast at the very thought.

"I am not in need of tea," Molly stated bluntly, "And I am..." she hesitated, knowing her face would plainly speak the truth when caught in a lie, but steeled herself to forge ahead regardless. "I am engaged. To Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

He laughed then, a full-faced, broad laugh that did not reach his eyes. "Is it so? Then it is a very good thing that I am here to see your Father, and not you. I wish you and Mr. Holmes all the very best."

"How do you know of him?" the words sprang to her lips as he turned to leave, and he hesitated, his hand caressing the edge of the doorframe, his pale fingers contrasting starkly with the warmth of the wood on which he laid them. He smiled to himself before catching her eye, and spoke. "I take a professional interest, nothing more. Good day, Molly… I am sure we will see much more of each other, in the future." He cocked his head and glanced again at her, as if taking in her essence in a manner both cavalier and razor-sharp. "Oh, and Molly," he paused, and she held her breath, paralyzed by the sheer indifference of his bearing, "Have a care with your lies; they will wear out, mark my words." And he left her with one last smirk, before shutting the door firmly behind him. She stood, beet-red and trembling, and wishing she had thought to bring another book to throw at the door. His appearance had not been altogether unexpected; in truth she had known he would come to her again, but it did not diminish the trickle of unease that ran down her spine. Skulking in the corners of her mind, Molly understood an inkling of what his ambition might be; but as to the _why_ of it, she could not fathom him at all.

The stairs creaked as he descended, and she heard the surprised voice of her Mother as Mr. Brook returned to the drawing room. She set her lips in a thin line, and determined to ignore the entire event. Launching herself forward, she thrust her feet into the little shoes lying haphazardly by the desk, and wrenched the door open. She traipsed down the steps with no effort to keep quiet, and could hear the murmur in the drawing room pause. She lifted her head high and marched past the open door, refusing to turn her head as Mrs. Hooper barked her name sharply. "Margaret! Come here this instant!" But she did not, and whisked past and out the back of the house, onto the pathway and further to where her smashed bottles lay. Carefully she picked through the broken shards, noting that many of them were not large at all; indeed, an ample amount had been smashed into a fine powder. She stared down at the two books, narrowing her eyes and swiveling her head, attempting to make more of the scene in front of her than would meet the eye. Eventually she reached down, carefully extricating the Radcliffe from its nest of broken glass. She smiled as she flipped it over, and gently brushed the half dozen pieces of glass lodged in the cover. _It may not be scientific,_ she thought to herself, _but it will do._

She spent the next half hour half-heartedly sweeping up the glass, straining her ears for the sounds of Mr. Brook's departure. The hum of voices had subsided, and yet he would not take his leave. The clink of china against china was endless, and Molly was quite sure he had overstayed his welcome, even by her Mother's unscrupulous standards. Her musings were interrupted by the crunch of footsteps round the front of the house, and her ears pricked, recognizing her Father's tread. She swiftly propped the broom against the rickety fence, and crept into the house on light feet.

The door snicked shut gently, and Dr. Hooper ambled in, lifting his hat from his balding head and placing it onto the rack. As he sent out a gusty sigh, relief at being home plain on his face, Mrs. Hooper's voice came high and shrill from the drawing room. "Oh, Mr. Hooper! We've a caller, do please join us,"

Dr. Hooper drew in a deep breath, the drawn and mildly irritable expression on his face only exacerbated as he pinched the bridge of his nose, drawing his strength together. "And who do we have the honor of entertaining, my dear?" he asked exasperatedly, and Molly smirked, knowing of his intense distaste for frivolous socializing.

"It is Mr. Brook, come to see you; come, we are at tea in the drawing room- "

But at this pronouncement, all traces of weariness dropped from Dr. Hooper, and he stood, slack-jawed for all of a moment, before striding forward purposefully into the drawing room. Molly frowned, and inched down the hall, the better to hear the ensuing conversation. Mr. Brook's voice came, smooth as glass. "Benjamin, it has been a very, very long time."

The wrought silence could have been cut with a knife, and Molly held her breath, wishing she could see the scene unfold. When her Father's voice did come, it belonged to a man she did not recognize; a voice low and gruff and filled with fury. "Get out." There was a low chuckle, and a step against the wood floor. "I demand of you to leave, this instant. _Get out!_ " The voice was infinitely firm and forceful, and she feared her Father might attempt to manhandle Mr. Brook in an effort to assure his exit; but the laughter continued, and the footsteps drew closer to her secreted position. She drew a sharp breath and darted for the end of the hall, but Mr. Brook appeared, the very image of her specter. He turned his head slowly to look upon her, smiling his sharp smile, his lips peeled back to show perfect teeth. "Adieu, Molly; I will see you again quite soon; be sure of it." And with that he turned on his heel and left the way he had come, leaving the door hanging ajar, the fine spring breeze whistling through the house.

 **~0~0~**

 _See, Mr. Holmes; I am a woman of my word, and am determined to have this to you post-haste. My experiments, as you might call them- for that is what I paused to do- are hardly what we might call scientific, but they must suffice for the time being._

 _I have, myself, thrown many gin bottles out the window- and though my room lies at but two storeys in height, each bottle has persisted in smashing itself into pieces no longer than my thumb and, in many cases, into a fine powder; certainly not capable of stabbing a man to the depth you spoke of. I have furthermore concluded that a body could not be so fatally pierced by falling onto these glass pieces, and I am sure you would have informed me if one of these pieces resembled something in more the nature of a sharp stake, rather than an insignificant shard that looked as if it had come off a teacup. To be sure, there would be damage- but it would not be fatal, nor so uniform in nature. No, Mr. Holmes: you have, as I suspected, a murder upon your hands. Wounds of this nature could not be executed without considerable force to drive them._

 _The damage done to the back of his head is curious; I wonder if perhaps the man was clubbed whilst severely inebriated, thus causing less of a struggle, and then thrown from the window. He could hardly have endured such acute injuries to both the front and back from a single fall. What does puzzle me is the clear difference in size of the wounds. If it is not possible for the glass pieces, in all their variety, to have created the wounds, then what on Earth could, that possesses such clear differences in size? Could our solution possibly be to place the blame of murder on not one man, but many? The sheer number of wounds might be understood as a gesture: in short, no single soul wishes to have the sin of murder upon his conscience. It is as if these men believe the committing of a murder might be less damaging to their eternal being if spread amongst many. I recall that Julius Caesar was killed in just such a similar vein, though I could be wrong; and this man certainly does not merit the status of Caesar! Moreover, if it were a single, efficient man intent on destruction, he might have done his research better: a single slash to the femoral artery, located on the inner thigh, or to the brachial artery, in the armpit, (in case you weren't aware,) would have our man dead in the space of several minutes, due to blood loss alone. Although, someone did after all deal the fatal blow; likely the deepest cut you mentioned, a slash to the lower left of the abdomen, striking a kidney._

 _What can I then conclude, Mr. Holmes, from the evidence of these facts? Perhaps it was his neighbors, or perhaps another force of disgruntled malcontents; but it was, I believe, a group of men (balance of probability; I for one have never heard tell of such a surly and vengeful gang of women,) who stabbed our victim to death. Perhaps he was bludgeoned on the back of the head with the very same bottle he had himself indulged in (this small detail is entirely chance, but would it not be perfectly poetic?) after which, each man delivered a stroke under stress of solidarity .He was then pushed from the window, where glass pieces had already been scattered, the better for the incident to seem entirely an accident._

 _There, Mr. Holmes- I can only hope that I have laid waste to your boredom! Now, do tell me: am I correct? Or has my fanciful mind led me too far astray?_

 _As for myself, I will tell you only that today was a strange day. I dare not bring the reasons for this to the forefront of my mind; and truth be told, I am not sure it would interest you in the slightest. But I have thought of you often, if only to conjure up the strange mechanics of your brain, and am glad that you have written. It is most refreshing to receive a letter that requires such enlivening of the mind; I sometimes wonder if I will go mad in the tedium of daily life. But I am a woman, and it is the cross I must bear. I often wish I could have action in my life, like a man; for I fear all my days will pass between these four walls… forgive me, I have spoken too frankly. Although I must confess it, you have rallied my spirit, and so it is to your spirit that I address this now: I give you thanks, Sherlock, for this blessed moment of respite._

 _Yours,_

 _Molly Hooper_


	7. Perfume

**A/N: Ok, I lied. I couldn't handle being away a month! What do you guys prefer? Once a month for a few chapters in more quick succession, or as it comes?**

 **To the Guest that leaves such lovely reviews, and also asks a lot of questions- get an account, so I can reply! I always feel bad that I can't :) But, let's assume Mrs. Hooper noticed the letters from last chapter, and stopped so far as reading them. Some decency has to prevail! But she's also interested in just about any man on two legs for Molly, so it's all fair game.**

 **Last thing- are there still Sherlolly contests running around the net? Or any Sherlock-verse fic contests? I can't seem to find any after 2015, which is a shame! Thank you all for following and especially reviewing! You make my day every single time :) Ok, onward...and enjoy!**

 **VII. Perfume**

 **June 16, 1882**

 _Dear Miss Hooper,_

 _The stink of summer heat is upon us, and I do not envy the poor wretch that roams the street below in search of a crumb. I observe him from my window, and on occasion throw down a scrap of food. He scurries forward on wasted limbs, squinting up at where I stand at the window, and his broken teeth wink in the sun's burning light. Tell me, do you think it kind of me, or terribly low?_

 _Have you heard of this aphorism, in which heat encourages humanity to act at their very worst? That the fever of the sun encourages all vices, even those long dormant in the kindest of souls, to rear their ugly heads? The delinquents have been driven from their sultry lairs and roam the streets, thieving and despoiling at every opportunity that presents itself. One can only hope that the heat will spur the advance of a more stimulating class of criminal; that the spike in petty crime is merely an irrevocable harbinger of something far greater to come. The city is rank with the wretched elite; yet laced between the layers of heavy stench lingers the perfume of sin. London has become a great stinking cesspool into which all the loungers and idlers of the Empire have been irresistibly drained. Ah, Molly, but it excites me beyond measure! I shall root them out, each and every one, drawn by their very noses into the unyielding light. I confess, this enterprise has nothing of the Good Samaritan hidden in its tangled web; it is for my selfish soul entirely. And with that laid bare, my friend, how can you not but judge me now?_

 _Watson is scarcely about, and it is interminably dull. I suspect- no, it is a falsehood, for I know- that he has found himself a lady, and I dare say will be abandoning me quite soon. It is tedious in the extreme; though I confess to fanning the flames of their imminent separation. He could not possibly have a more interesting time of it in the company of that lady, than when we are on a particularly interesting case. Perhaps I ought to remind him of it. Just when you have found an amenable fellow and flat-mate, he is to be found, predictably, chasing the fairer sex. I suppose I should not grudge him, but I do; it is insufferable to make one's own tea, and Mrs. Hudson, as she is so frequent to remind me, is indeed my landlady, and not my housekeeper. It's a dreadful business. I can only, as ever, hope for the prospect of a first-rate case._

 _Boredom, Molly, is drudgery. I beg you to stem its flow. I've said that heat looses all vices; but now I must contradict myself, for it is not so. Boredom is the cruelest of beasts that dogs my every step; ever it drives me from its grasping claws. My mind is relentless. I do not say this from arrogance; there is no false humility that could ever make its home in my breast. No: I say it as an immutable truth. I am driven to the brink of madness, time and again. And it is then, Molly, that my unclean habit tempts me. Ever it beckons, and I have not always the strength to resist. I do not ask you to save me, but with every word I pen I feel as though a weight were being lifted, no matter that the weight is but very slight. But enough of this drivel; sentiment has turned my head, and I believe I have you to blame for it. Caring has never saved a life; no. Pure, cold reason alone could claim this as its asset._

 _Ah, but there has been a murder! Lestrade has only just left; it's quite excellent. Brace yourself, my dear; I am doubtful of its cunning, but we shall see what this case unfolds._

 _SH_

 **~0~0~**

 **July 20, 1882**

 _Dear Miss Hooper,_

 _That case was drivel: dull, uninspired, insipid; a humdrum affair whose only value lay in the passing of time. In short form, it was a wife who fancied herself clever but was, in the end, just as uncreative as the rest of her fickle breed._

 _I find it highly suspect to have not received a reply from you. In course of fact, it was not very kind of you, and this puzzles me, as I took you for a slight girl dripping in foppish over-sentimentality. It does not match. I hope you are not deathly ill- I doubt this, for you seemed quite robust when last we met, and have a doctor for a Father. Still, it is not altogether impossible, and if this is the case, I demand you return to the realm of the well, and pick up your pen. Mrs. Hudson is an abhorrent replacement for Watson, who is still bent on chasing that bit of skirt; and though you are yourself of the feminine variety- through no conscious willingness of your own- you are still a step up, as it were. In fact, I insist you visit._

 _I am quite sure you are not ill, that would be absurd. Why is it that criminals are so dreadfully tedious? Their little minds so feeble, their wits so very dry? I lack the stimulation my brain craves, and so I am forced to explore other avenues. I must, Molly. You must not think ill of me, though I fear it could not be any other way- and there, the deed has been done; see how the very ink betrays me, as it speckles and spots._

 _I insist you visit. The words fly before my pen, as if formed by some demon keeping vigil in the darkness of my mind, waiting to spring at the imperative moment… I insist you visit. It is not longing, nor darkest torment in the fact of your absence: no, Molly, I require your company- I am desperate for it. You are a soothing balm to my soul and yes, Molly, yes, you must come, and now I beg it if you, on bended knee, or I fear I shall lose myself entirely! Molly, dear Molly, my demon bares its teeth; it explodes through my veins and quiets the Earth, the Noise, the bursting flow of thought to conclusion. But you, Molly, Molly, how sweet your name is to my pen!- you quiet my mind as only does the gentle needle. There, I have said it plainly, now, and fear your scorn; ah, that I would not have my plea fall on deaf ears! I am not myself, but, Molly, I crave your presence as the Earth craves the Sun!_

 _But, here, before I have lost my nerve entirely; before the spurring demon shrinks back into the depths, I seal this letter, and send it, for I know that your heart, your mind, is mine… but I would hear it, Molly, from your own sweet pen, your own familiar lips._

 _SH_

 **~0~0~**

 **August 13, 1882**

 _Dear Miss Hooper,_

 _There are three possibilities as to which I have not received your reply. The first is that you have decided not to reply. This is highly unlikely. And once again, Miss Hooper, I find myself apologizing to you- profusely- for my previous boldness; as you might have surmised, I was not myself. I was… imprudent, in the extreme. You must forgive me. Still, I do not believe your character to be so unmerciful, so easily swayed and made of stone. In fact, I know this is not your temperament- this was hardly my first trespass upon your spirit, and yet you have excused my behavior in the past. Therefore you must have either received it and not yet had a moment to reply- again, hardly likely; what could possibly command your interest more than the letters which I have sent? There is no book of science or anatomy that could spark your curiosity- nay, your sympathies- more than that mortifying letter. I scarcely remember its contents, and this above all things lends its qualities to my memory; in short- it was humiliating. And therefore, research and study, while necessary, could not be more engaging than a friend's hardship. You would write immediately, if only to tell me off thoroughly. This leads me to the conclusion that my letters must have gone awry, or- ah, yes, what an arresting idea: the letters were not lost, but intercepted. But why, or rather who, would take such a keen interest, to go so far as to rob a woman of her communication? You are not a woman to attract this sort of activity unless… Oh, Molly, unless it is to myself that the significance is manifest. In which case: How do you do, esteemed interceptor; I trust you have something profoundly dubious up your sleeve? Entertain me, then, my good fellow: do it. Are you the different class of criminal, sir, that I have long been awaiting? What interest do you have in me? And to be clear: harm Molly, so much as lay a finger upon her person, and I will have your head. Mark my words, and mark them well: I am not to be toyed with._

 _SH_

 **~0~0~**

In the wretched heat of an August morning, Molly awoke, uneasy and unrested. Her back was sticky with sweat, her hair plastered to her forehead in the sultry heaviness of the air. The sun climbed slowly in its steady ascent, trailing a fever of light onto all in its path. Coverings that had long been bereft of their purpose were now consigned to the very edges of the creaking four-poster, and the hem of her nightdress slid high against her thigh, the fabric mingling with the briny stickiness of her skin. Her eyes opened as slits, taking in the stillness of the room. Everything lay as it had the night before; each book haphazardly cast across her desk just so, her apron thrown irritably over the creaking old chair. But despite it all, something was _different._ Something had been altered, perhaps in no visible way, but the very air had shifted; some scent lay wreathed in the stifling room that was unfamiliar to her. It was faint, but present, and she sat up slowly, breathing deeply through her nose. Yes, the faintest hint of something dark and earthy; some musk that reeked of male. She slowly shifted out of the bed, the swollen wood groaning beneath her movements, and came to stand at her desk. There, tucked into the pages of Gray's Anatomy, so carefully that only a barest corner showed, was a note. A cold dread ran its way down her spine, a slow trickle of perspiration that flowed heavily over her hot flesh like salt over a wound. Ever so slowly, as if the book itself was poison, she reached trembling fingers to its cover, and allowed the crisp pages to fall open. The scrap of paper fluttered to the floor, heavy with greasy fingerprints. The script that flowed across its greying face was careful and flowing, elegant and precise; at odds with its blunt manner of delivery.

 _When sleep claims you, your breath flutters the tendrils of hair that lie across your cheek. I can scarcely resist the temptation to lay a finger upon your flesh, to tuck away the silky brown lengths that mar the whiteness of your skin. The pale column that is your throat fits perfectly into the palm of my hand… and your breath, it is warm and deep. As I imagine your softness beneath my fingertips, I am become a lucky man indeed._

 _Don't be alarmed, my dear… I could never damage such a lovely one as you. There are so many games left to play, you see, and you are in possession of an exquisite little mind, locked away in the pretty dome of your head._

 _Sleep now, and rest, for tomorrow is a new day…_

Her breath caught as she read the note, eyes widening in shock as her fist compulsively crumpled the words. It had come, then, just as she had always known it would; the axe had fallen, and the visions that haunted her dreams had crept through the veil of night and into reality.

The edges of the paper dug roughly into her palm, so tightly did she squeeze it in her small hand. With a grunt of repressed fury, she threw it across the room with as much force as she could muster. It hit the wall with a mild _pfft,_ and fell to the floor; an innocent scrap of paper torn from a corner of a page. Molly stared at it for a moment as it sat, benign and unassuming; and she wondered how her life could have descended from the so consumingly banal into a world of secretive and strange happenings within the space of a few months. It was a curious thing, life; and she was not sure she would ever understand it. Slowly, she drew in a deep, reluctant breath, her eyes fluttering closed. The breath released itself in a great gusty torrent, the air expunged from her lungs in a deliberate stream of warm wind; and she was cool, and calm. She was a woman who had accepted her destiny, and who would face it with an unflinching temerity. With her head held high, Molly Hooper sat at her desk, her back straight and proud. She seized her pen, and began to write.

 **~0~0~**

August 31, 1882

 _Dear Mr. Holmes,_

 _I hope I did not cause you offense, all those months back. I cannot imagine what I have done that you did not see fit to respond to my letter- perhaps my deductions were perfectly absurd? I admit the possibility wholeheartedly. Or perhaps it is simply not in your nature to seek the company of a friend, even if it be solely through the ministrations of pen and ink. But Mr. Holmes, you might have written, regardless of how fanciful my theories might have been, or your views on friendship between those of the opposite gender. I had received your letter with joy, but I see you did not feel the same on receiving mine. I can hardly blame you if you find I am lacking in expertise. My knowledge is limited, and I am forever constrained to research and study through my personal library, though I ceaselessly endeavor to widen the scope of my understanding. I am, after all, a woman; and as such am bound always to strive for the unknown, but without being granted the satisfaction of discovery for my own self. Had you less pride, sir, we might have been friends; and for that loss, I am deeply saddened._

 _I am to be married, and this is why I write you now. It is not a position I seek, nor is it one of my own choosing. I fear any future response from you would be considered highly indecorous, and so I must beg of you to pursue no further contact. This is my goodbye to you, Sherlock; and a goodbye to that cherished season which we spent in each other's company. I will remember it fondly, despite your hopeless self… it is past and faded, though the memories will linger on, as a pleasant fragrance will hang in the air, irrespective of time or distance._

 _Molly Hooper_

She folded the letter carefully, sealing it with pale hands that trembled not a whit. Her countenance was smooth as ice, and she hesitated for only an instant, allowing her fingers to brush the paper for one wistful moment, yearning for a life that was not her own. But the wish was spent in the blink of an eye, and she reigned herself in, holding her identity close to her breast in a wisp of shallow breath. For she was a loving daughter, and a woman respectful, however grudgingly, of her place in her Father's household.

 **~0~0~**

The letter was opened by long and slender hands, and read with quick work. The hands twitched, a movement betraying what his face did not. Again it was read, and his eyes were the color of clear and cold water as they scanned the page, and his mouth descended into a line severe as cut stone. And as he brought the paper close, her scent was released, mingling with the tang of old ink; a perfume in the oppressive, dusty air.


	8. Sturm und Drang

**A/N: Thank you all for being such amazing readers! I truly write faster because of your lovely comments, so please: review! I adore you all! :) Ok, onwards...**

 **VIII. Sturm und Drang**

Thunder rolled out across the moors, a crackling burst that birthed great forks of lightning. The sleek white shards lanced down to the grateful earth, and the shattered sky flew asunder in untamed delight. Deep in their holes the little creatures of the scrubby heath cowered, and waited for the rain to pass. Low the storm came, and beckoned with its shadowy wing over the window where Molly sat with hands folded, peering through the thick panes of glass. She smiled, and shifted to a new position, pressing her nose to the window in childish delight. There was something so very thrilling in the nature of the storm; the raw power coursed through the sky, and through her fingertips she felt it. It was as if some essence could be gleaned from the very air around her, tingling with sharp, electric energy.

When she was young, she had often stolen from the house, bursting forth at the slightest bloom of thunder and prancing barefoot among the knee-deep brush. She howled like the untamed little child she was, beckoning and enticing the heavens to crack and unleash their flood. Her shift had always been soaked through, a wet sheet clinging to her skinny frame; but she had not returned until the cold bit through to her very bones, and demanded respite. She had earned several beatings for these untoward romps; but they were worth it, and Mrs. Hooper could never quite catch her at it, try as she might. But Molly was a woman grown now, and instead made do with watching the storm's steady progress towards the hill on which the house was perched.

A black spot appeared now on the horizon, on the seldom travelled road. It approached what could only be the bare crossroads, sparse at the best of times, but now swept into a bewildering torrent of cloud and rain. The sky unfurled its contents in dark veiled swells, and the earth's greedy living things reached their restless arms upward, towards the welcome liquid. The spot paused, as if to consider its surroundings, and Molly raised herself to her knees on the window seat, hands pressed against the pane, for the position the spot had halted in was a dangerous one. The moor swept downward from the house, on into the open, wide heath, cast with wild and unforgiving monuments of stone, giving her vantage out onto the land. At any moment the lightning would strike, and the spot would be no more; but luck, it seemed, was on its side.

The rain was never still, and was born anew with every drop; and the lightning was ceaseless in its vengeful fury. That she could see the spot at all was a small marvel, shadowed and close as the air had become; but it glimmered somehow, as if touched by ghostly light. The spot decided its course, and was driven forward by the edge of the storm. It resolved itself into man and horse, and on it came, leading the charge of the storm over the ancient earth. A solitary bird swept the sky, as if it were the standard of nature's great force, drawing the clouds onward by an invisible tether. It cried out once, and was gone; and in that moment she knew the mounted figure, as if his name had been whispered in her ear. The storm bore him to their door on a fearful wind, and as he clattered up their drive, the sky was rent in two by the striking of fiery light. It lit the man's face, and he glanced up and found her, framed in the window. He smiled up at her briefly; a broad and sardonic grin that displayed his fine, even teeth, as the droplets poured down his face.

Molly cowered as the thunder crashed overhead, rattling the shutters in their place. She heard the pummeling of his fist at the door below, a jagged staccato against the desolate howling of the wind. "No!" she cried, and the day's silence, which she had held close and dear, shattered into bright and winking fragments. She leapt away from the window, lithe as a cat, and dashed to the top of the stairs. "No, you musn't- don't- "

But it was too late, for Grace had opened the door and Mr. Brook stepped in quickly, shutting out the gale behind him with a grim finality. He removed his hat and coat and held them out, dripping morosely onto the floorboards, to Grace, who accepted them sullenly. "I must speak with Dr. Hooper- and I believe I could do with a fire in the hearth, to dry myself- "

"I am here," came Dr. Hooper's voice, and Molly dropped to her feet impulsively, and found herself crouched and hidden, eavesdropping on the two men. But with a quick flick of his eyes and twitch of his lips, Mr. Brook found her, peering cautiously from her shadowed haunt. She flinched, and it was again as if he spoke in her ear- _Ah, and there you are, little one._

"Grace," said Dr. Hooper coldly, "do not light the fire. Mr. Brook will not be staying."

"Ah," spoke Mr. Brook in a manner light as silk, and the meager light from the windows glinted in his eyes. "But you do not mean to turn me out, into that foursome gale? Where are your manners, my old friend? I am soaked, already, to the skin- do you wish me so ill, as to make your word my death sentence?"

Dr. Hooper had drawn closer to the man, gripping the banister of the stairway so tightly that the bones of his knuckles pressed through his skin, white and drawn. "I will do what I must," he said in a low voice, "you are not welcome here- "

"Mr. Hooper!" the outraged voice of Mrs. Hooper filled the foyer, and the swishing of her skirts followed the click of her footsteps. "For shame, Benjamin, let the man in! Will you let him catch his death of cold on our very doorstep? Mr. Brook, how good it is to see you, please, do come in. Grace, set a fire- it is really much too hot, but there's nothing for it, Mr. Brook- you're a right mess!" Already she had bustled forward, pressing him to continue into the drawing room.

"I thank you, Mrs. Hooper; and, if it is not too much, tea would be a great comfort,"

"Quite right, quite right you are- Grace, if you would- "

"And a biscuit or two, if you have it." he added, pressing his hand against the small of her back. His glance was mild, and yet the ever-present shadow that followed wherever he set foot lingered on his countenance, casting his smile as false. His hand pressed firmly against her, and Mrs. Hooper faltered at the contact, eyeing him nervously, before turning back to glance at her husband. He stood, glowering, his hands drawn into white fists at his side. Mr. Brook had continued forward after a moment, his hand leaving a lingering trail along Mrs. Hooper's side. Mr. Hooper eyed the man's misconduct, and physically restrained himself, clutching at the bannister in an effort to stay his course, as his wife's eyes widened in offense. "This will come to no good, Felicity, mark my words," he growled between gritted teeth, "I hope that no great evil will come upon us because of your ridiculous need for propriety," and Mrs. Hooper paled at his words. She moved forward, laying a hand against his arm, and gripped it. "Whatever do you mean? Who- Benjamin, who is this man?"

But Dr. Hooper had swept into the drawing room, his stance like that of a keen-eyed hawk, ready to swoop on any that might dare to threaten himself or his kin. "My office, Brook," he barked in a voice of steel, "Whatever business you seek, it is with myself, and myself alone; and we will discuss it in private." He waited for Mr. Brook to rise from his seat, and the two men left silently, with a severe gait and scarcely more than a grimace to be shared between them.

Molly had not made a sound, crouched in her shadowy corner of the stairs. But as the men moved away, she stood slowly, shifting as the ancient wood creaked beneath her. Mrs. Hooper knew her presence then, and sought her glance, bewilderment written plainly on her face.

"You should not have let him stay, Marm," Molly spoke finally, as their locked gaze held in silence. "But if you had turned him away today, he would have come again tomorrow. In truth, there is no escaping fate; and I know now that Mr. Brook is wound inextricably into mine." And with that she turned, and walked back to her room, shutting the heavy door quietly. The walls moaned, and the very foundations of the house shook as the rain pounded a sinister rattle upon the roof, a harmony to their uneasy thoughts. The devil was present in that storm, and he danced over their home with forked wings of lightning and the dread voice of thunder. The air had turned dank and musky, and Mrs. Hooper shivered, alone in the hall, with the cold comfort of Molly's words hanging like a shroud over her conscience.

 **~0~0~**

Molly waited quietly in her room for the summons she knew would come. And when it came, she rose swiftly on bare feet to patter down the stairs and towards her Father's study. Mr. Brook had left as soon as the storm had broken, but the groan of the wind as it battered against the house had not been so loud as to cover the raised voice of Mr. Hooper, shouting with reckless abandon at his opponent. Mr. Brook never responded in more than a murmur, but his voice was a gentle hum beside Mr. Hooper's anxious shouts. The light streaked now through the cloud speckled sky, bringing with it a dusky color that illuminated the moor. His dark horse had ridden off with him upon it, and they had swiftly diminished from her window view, into the horizon and the oncoming night.

She pushed the door open gently, and tiptoed forward into the warm room, her toes curling against the moist wood. The study had always been a place of wonder to Molly as a child, and as she sat now opposite her Father at his desk, her eyes wandered again to the rack of pipes on the mantle, the collection of dusty medical books and journals lining the walls; the anatomical drawings that were strewn carelessly about his desk, and the neatly collected medical tools arranged on a side table. The man she had known and loved as a child had always been full of joy and curiosity; an indulgent Father that had allowed her to touch and to learn, to draw anything that drew her interest in that room stuffed with the essence of the secret inner workings of the human body. But now, as she looked steadily upon him, he was simply a man who had begun to grow stout; a man with a small set of spectacles, and hair graying at the temples, staring absently into a corner of the room. One hand lay gently, palm up, as if in supplication, on the top of the desk.

"Papa?" she asked, and he started. She seldom called him by this name, and a smile drew his lips upward, life beginning again to dance again in his eyes. But the smile wavered, and then was still. She watched him, and he fiddled anxiously with the cuff of his shirt before glancing up at her.

"Molly," he said after a little while, and then looked away. She said nothing, and his fingers tumbled and flicked, over and under.

"Molly," he said again, in a voice that was hesitant and quivering, "I am your Father."

"Yes," she agreed, and they were silent again. He could not look her in the eye, and the numbing chill that had begun to creep through her at the first crest of wind over the heath spread its icy fingers in her veins. "What do you need?" she asked. Mr. Hooper heaved a great gusty sigh, and finally looked at her. He steeled himself, as if to some unpleasant task. "It is time you were married." he said, in a voice low and unflinching.

At the words, she felt the death knell upon her soul. But she held her chin higher; her lips tightened, and she looked her Father in the eye with a keen, penetrating glance. "To whom, sir?"

"To Mr. Brook."

"I will not." The words left her lips before she knew them, and they trembled in the air, ripe with fury and defiance. He looked at her, then, and his visage darkened into a tight mask. "You must, and you will," he said in a flat voice. She stared at him, and did not know him.

"Why must I? You have never entreated me to marry; not once, though Mother endlessly hopes- "

"And it is high time, Margaret! You must marry him; he is a gentleman of good fortune and repute, and you will never want for a thing."

"Papa!" she shrilled, half standing from her seat, and placing her palms flat against his desk, "I do not care for material things! Surely you of all people know this to be true. I need only my books!"

"This is _not_ true, Molly; books do not grow on trees! And the food you eat, why, the very clothes you wear on your back do not come from nothing! What will you do, when I am dead and gone? We live on my meager earnings as a country doctor, and the precious little your Mother brought when we were wed. Nothing, Molly, _nothing_ crushes spirit like poverty."

She fell silent at that, and understood the burden that she had become; a grown woman who, though full of wit and intelligence, had become nothing more than another mouth to feed. She was a daughter who had willfully turned away every suitor, and dismissed her biological purpose- a woman's foremost function- in favor of personal happiness. _I am selfish,_ she thought miserably, and fought to quell the rising panic. "I could…" she began hesitantly, peering at the grain of the wooden desk as if it were of the utmost interest. But he caught her gaze furiously then and demanded, "You could what?"

"I could…work, Papa. I could work, if I… moved to London, there are… women, who work in the hospitals. There are nurses, and- " But his fist slammed against the table, and she shrank back in her seat, terrified at his sudden wroth.

"Enough of this nonsense. You will marry him, Margaret."

"I cannot! Papa, I do not love him! I do not even _like_ him, the man is…." she shuddered, grasping for a word, "the man is a vile, creeping thing… I could not bear it. Please, Papa; please do not do this to me!"

"If love is what you crave, then enough of love will follow, a few years hence. Be sure of it, Molly," he replied in a much softened voice; but there was no truth in his words, and he knew it, for again he looked away. She stood, slowly, and walked around the desk. She knelt on the floor before him, and took his hands in her own, looking up into his guilty face.

"Enough of love, Papa? Do you understand the nature of it? I will not wed without it." He looked down upon her, and her lips trembled, straining to keep the threatening tears in check.

"And is there someone you could love, Molly?" he asked in his slow, soft voice.

"I could love Mr. Holmes," she replied immediately, and with such fervor that he was taken aback.

"Mr. Holmes?" his brow furrowed, and for an instant, Molly grasped at the possibility of freedom; or enough of freedom, if freedom's limits were to be always in the keeping of a man.

"Yes!" she exclaimed, "Papa, I could… I could love Mr. Holmes, if he would allow me, if…" but her voice trailed away, and she fell silent. Mr. Holmes had not responded to her letter, and had been all but a ghost these past months. He did not care for her, after all, and so what little hope she had kindled in her breast faded, like a little flame left to die out.

"Mr. Holmes has made no offer." Mr. Hooper said into the silence, and after a while, she replied, "No."

"Then you will marry Mr. Brook. It has already been decided, and agreed upon." Mr. Hooper said firmly, and pulled his hands from his daughter's grip. He stood, and walked to the window, facing out into the fading light with his hands clasped behind his back. She too stood slowly, and walked to her chair.

"Why do you do this to me? What have I ever done to you, to deserve this?" she asked softly into the air. "Papa… what does he _know_? How do you know him? I see clearly that you despise the man and yet, yet you ask me to _marry_ him? It does not make sense, it does not add up- "

But he whirled upon her, closing the gap between them in three swift strides and jerked her from her seat. "I am your Father, and _you will obey me_ , so help me God. This has gone far enough. The wedding is in a fortnight, and Pastor Nathan will preside. Mr. Brook lives in London, and so you will leave us. And that is all there is to be said. Now, _leave."_

She stared up at him with her lips parted in astonishment for all of a moment, before tearing from the room like a wild thing, out of the house and onto the cool, wet moor.

She did not hear his whispered words, _Forgive me_ , as they floated out the open door behind her.

 **~0~0~**

She ran, lifting her skirts and cursing her bare feet. She ran, and ran; and her shawl was torn in the heath, and her voice turned ragged and raw from the screams she sent out onto the lonely moor. A bird wheeled overhead in the misty twilight, and she raged at it, shaking her fist and throwing small rocks as it circled, uncaring and unchanging. Her hair tumbled from its neat braids, and hung limp and savage about her face. She found her way to that vantage point where she and Mr. Holmes had met, those months ago that seemed like years. Her knees gave way beneath her suddenly, as if the great weight she felt in her heart had become a physical encumbrance. She put down her head and wept; and her cheeks were salt and wet. And after a time, grief and exhaustion caught at her with their slinking, grasping hands; and she slept.

They found her, eventually; delirious and in need of water, in the grey light of morning. She was put to bed, and for days she neither ate nor spoke, but only slept, or stared, unseeing, at the wall. Her hair lay like a dead thing upon her pillow, and the heat became sultry and oppressive.

But on that morning, when she had woken in a puddle of salty sweat, and found evidence of his presence by her side, she found some small remnant of her self in her breast. She was not one to be defeated so easily, nor to become such a willing tool to the dire mechanisms of her fate. Fate is an unknown thing, she thought, born of the stealthy forces of nature and the mighty hand of God. But liberty; liberty was another thing entirely. It was not a place one stumbled upon, and also it was not a thing that happened to a person who was blithe, and unaware of themselves. Freedom was a heavy load; great and strange burden to undertake. It was not a gift given, but a choice made. And so Molly Hooper made her choice, and accepted that the road she had ventured upon might never see the light. But in so doing, she found her strength and tenacity, born anew in the depths of her spirit. So she rose from her bed, and sat at her desk, and began to write with a firm, steady hand.

 **August 31, 1882**

 ** _Dear Mr. Holmes…._**


	9. The Sound of Silence

**A/N: Ok, so this chapter is taking a dark turn. And it will get darker as this progresses so.. be warned. I don't want to give it away, but, Trigger Warnings, for just in case. I might have to change the rating in the future, so let me know what you guys think about that... I have also been thinking about it long and hard!**

 **As always, a very, very big thank you to all that have been reading, and especially reviewing! I'm shocked that this is getting itself written as quickly as it has been, and I'm completely chalking it up to your support! Thank you!**

 **IX. The Sound of Silence**

She stood, tall and proud, and pale as any ghost. Her arms stretched outwards, reaching, as Mrs. Hooper worked the lacings to her corset, tugging at the strings fiercely. Bursts of air escaped Molly's grim-set lips with every pull, as her waist was slowly drawn in, and in, displacing flesh and bone. Her Mother spoke not a word, pulling the white gown down and over Molly's torso, helping her arms through the long, stiff sleeves, to settle on her hips. She could feel Mrs. Hooper's hands tremble as she began to button the myriads of tiny, untenable buttons, and still no words were passed; no expressions of comfort, or fear, or the simple gentle solace of a clasped hand. Disquiet ran rampant between them, thick and poisonous as pitch. She regarded her reflection passively in the ancient, tarnished mirror; a relic of better times for the Hooper family. Her hair was artfully plaited and pinned round the crown of her head, a style soft yet severe, regal yet girlish. Molly was no great beauty; she was plain, and small, and frail of limb. But on that day, she shone: not with any blissful radiance, but with the air of a woman who has nothing but her pride left in her possession, and so wears it closely wrapped about her, like a mantle. In truth, she was lovely; her shoulders were thrown back, her collarbones stood in the most elegant of white frames, and the gown sketched her into a modest, fair bride. But Molly's eyes were unseeing, and her ears were unhearing. The reflection was herself, and yet not herself. Her pale skin and slight build, her large brown eyes, deep as evening; they had become merely a vessel for a tormented soul.

They held the voluminous white bonnet between them, and the fine ribbons trailed over her fingers in a silken waterfall. Carefully it was settled upon her head, and Mrs. Hooper reached for the veil, that last vestige of separation between her and her husband-to-be.

"Oh, but aren't you a sight," Mrs. Hooper sighed finally, stepping back to admire the image she had helped to create. Molly looked at her, one brow quirked in incredulity, as life sparked again in her eye.

"Mother," she began, and her voice was tight and high, "I care not a whit for my... _appearance,_ when I can scarcely stand to be in the presence of the man I am about to wed. But," she stilled her mother's retort with a firmly raised hand, "But, I am aware of my duty, and have made my peace with it. There is nothing to be done, save to inform you, _again,_ of how vehemently opposed I am to our... union. The man instills a dread in me that I cannot fathom, and yet Father persists..."

"Oh, but child, dear child, dear Molly," burst out Mrs. Hooper, fluttering towards her as only a mother could. "Oh, my dear! Well, well, but it will be alright, you will see. And you look, oh, Margaret, but you do look beautiful!" She cried, and flung herself at Molly, clinging to her daughter in the sudden despair of a child who has realized they will soon lose their best-loved toy. "Whatever will I do without you! It will be so quiet, and I will be so very, very, alone…"

It would have been easy, Molly thought as she held Mrs. Hooper in her arms, to be resentful of this silly, selfish woman. But resentment did no good; and there was no use in harboring it now. She knew her Mother, better than any soul alive- perhaps even better than Mr. Hooper. Guilt weighed upon Mrs. Hooper, guilt born of a foolish temperament and the absolute belief in her helplessness, so deeply impressed upon her from the earliest of ages.

"I can do nothing," she murmured into Molly's shoulder, and then straightened, and cupped her cheeks softly between her palms. "Do you understand that I have no power in this matter? Surely you must understand, my dear… and he is not a _bad_ man, though he may seem a bit unpleasant at times. And rich, and of good family, it seems- though I cannot understand why he must work as a maths professor if this is the case. Ah, but surely you must admit he has reasonably comely features!" Mrs. Hooper babbled on, her hands dropping from Molly as she turned, instinctively beginning to set the room to rights. "Not, of course, like that young Mr. Holmes- but that is a different matter," she finished hastily, as Molly stiffened. "A different matter entirely." She cast around for another subject, twisting her hands in consternation as Molly slowly sank down on the bed, her head bent low and defeated.

"Do you know," Mrs. Hooper began, in a tremulous voice, then stopped. She cleared her throat with a tiny sound, and Molly looked up at her, hope and trepidation blended in equal parts on her expressive face.

"Molly," she spoke again, and she was now firm, unsympathetic; for the topic she broached was one with which there could be no turning from. "Molly, you know what is expected of you… tonight?" And Mrs. Hooper loathed that it fell to her to so press the point home. Molly paled, and her skin became ashen with dismay, as if this one thing she dreaded more than even the prospect of marrying Mr. Brook had been the farthest from her mind. But when the object of her fear was given voice, what was distant and far off became a harsh reality, quick to come and terrifying in its imminence.

"I do, Marm," Molly breathed, and not a word more was said.

 **~0~0~**

The clouds drifted carelessly across the sky, so that the sun's light fell in dappled rays over the small procession as they walked quietly to the church. Molly tread with head bent, and stumbled, unseeing, over every stone. At last the timeworn structure came upon them, and they filed in, the few guests silent and uneasy in their wake. Mr. Brook waited at the altar alongside Pastor Nathan, who looked positively gleeful to be delivering the ceremony.

Her feet moved slowly up the aisle, as if of their own accord, and Mr. Brook's even glance, dark and brilliant as smoldering embers, drew her ever forward. And though she was present, her mind had drifted elsewhere, clutching to the wings of the whistling lark as it darted from tree to tree; anywhere but the hateful present.

Pastor Nathan began, gesticulating furiously, and grinned at her between phrases. He spoke in a perfect frenzy of high spirits, delivering what God had intended of him: the service of Holy Matrimony.

In her vague daze, the answers to the prompted questions escaped her lips freely, " _I do_ ," trembled in the air, as if her voice were carried by some spirit into the echoing hall of the church. "I do," answered Mr. Brook. It was in this moment that her mind snapped to attention, and she looked at the man, as if for the very first time. He was not tall; nor was he exceedingly handsome, as Mrs. Hooper had noted. But the perpetual smirk that played about his face gave the man a cavalier aspect, as if he stood at the back of a continually tedious play, and sneered at the players and audience alike. Indeed, as his lips peeled back, unleashing a leering grin upon her, she wondered again at his intent: what true purpose lay behind those devilishly flashing eyes?

"And now, under the witness of God, I declare you..." she glanced up in sudden panic, as if only now realizing that the moment was upon her, the moment when the path of her life split without reserve into two. The wild despair in her eyes was so forceful, so very desperate, that Pastor Nathan stumbled to a halt and swallowed nervously, his Adam's apple bobbing violently in his throat. Their eyes met for a brief instant, and a flicker of remorse crossed his face like a shadow. The moment stretched, and she felt the pressure of Mr. Brook's hands clasped around her own. She looked out upon the scant congregation, in hope, or supplication; she knew not which. The guests seemed to avoid her gaze, looking everywhere but at the lovely, wretched bride.

The door of the church jerked open with a sudden great groan of wood, and a tall, well-dressed figure fell through, his face averted as he turned to shut the door… and Molly's breath caught in her throat, for it was _him_ , and though she had done her utmost to force him from her mind, he reappeared with a vengeance, his queer blue eyes blazing, for her, for him, and her cry was strangled and sobbing as he charged down the aisle to take her from the disgusting, odious man whose hands now gripped hers fiercely-

But it was not him, and Mr. Marchbanks turned his round face, haloed with foppish, dark curls, to the disapproving congregation, murmuring apologies as he ducked his head and quickly found his seat. _I am gone mad!_ she thought despairingly, and her throat choked with the force of her silent sobs.

"...I declare you man and wife."

Mr. Brook's hands held hers tightly, and she felt sure it was the only thing that kept her standing. Numb disbelief penetrated her to her very core; her hand was raised, and the scant lace did nothing to diminish the soft brush of Mr. Brook's lips against her fingers. She shivered slightly, and resisted the urge to wrench her hand from his grip- but he had dropped it. The deed was done, and he paid her no heed, clipping swiftly out of the church as though she were now nothing more of consequence.

She felt very much the specter at the feast, as the few guests loitered at the reception only a little while before hastily dropping their excuses with half-hearted congratulations, and many darting glances over their shoulders. She had seen nothing of Mr. Brook after arriving at what was no longer her home, or indeed until much later, after her Mother had spent her tearful goodbyes. Her Father, also, was absent; and she wondered at this, for it seemed clear that there was unfinished business between the two men, though Mr. Hooper had spoken not a word on the subject since their encounter.

Night fell, slow and grey, and her paltry baggage was loaded onto the carriage, bound for a nearby inn where they would spend the night before continuing to London. She waited with her chin held high in front of her childhood home, barely daring to breathe for fear that her carefully held-together spirit might come apart completely.

"Molly," came her Father's voice from behind her, and she turned, lips stern and unsmiling. "Father," she greeted him, and there was nothing of the warmth that was once shared between him.

He sighed, and took her arm gently, steering her into the garden and out of the way of prying ears. "Molly," he said in a low, quick voice, "if anything- anything at all untoward, or strange should ever happen, I think you ought to write Mr. Holmes- he is a detective, is he not?"

Her eyes narrowed at this, and in a flash of fury she ripped her arm from his. "What do you mean?" she asked in a tight, dangerous voice.

"Only that if anything… _strange_ , might happen, in the future- "

"Father!" she hissed furiously, "Speak your mind! _What do you mean?_ How dare you deliver me into the arms of this- this _creature_ , only to beg of me to write the man I might have loved!"

"No, that is not what- only that if something were to happen, I believe Mr. Holmes might be one to be trusted." He spoke with a chattering, unleashed tongue, and his eyes darted nervously to where the carriage and Mr. Brook stood waiting.

"Then you should have availed upon his services at an earlier date- Father, how _could_ you!" she moaned, her head dropping into her hands.

"My child- Molly, there was nothing to be done, there _is_ nothing to be done- may God show mercy on my sins! Margaret, truly, I do not think the match to be so very terrible; I merely speak in precaution…" But his words were lost, for as she raised her head, he saw in her a terrible loathing for the weakness of his soul. He trembled before that look; but within a blink of an eye it had fled, and he wondered if he had ever seen it at all. She walked to him slowly, a woman grown and a girl no longer. Deliberately she raised herself onto her toes, and planted a kiss on his cheek. Then she turned, and was gone, with a flick of lace and veiling glowing white in the moon's wan light.

~0~0~

They arrived at the inn in full dark, and the lanterns flickered silently in the unseen breeze. A servant beckoned to them mutely, and in a hushed tread they were shown to their room. The lamps had been lit, the belongings deposited next to the wardrobe. She trailed in slowly behind them, and came to stand at the large four poster bed, resting a hand on the smooth wood. It was sumptuous, to be sure; and she shivered, though it was not from chill. The door clicked closed behind her, and she turned- but the place was empty.

"Mr. Brook?" She asked to the room, but quickly bit her tongue, wondering if his presence or absence was the more worrisome. The shadows pressed upon her, as if creeping in a steady advance from the corners. She hastily made herself busy, firmly forcing all thoughts away but the task at hand, and struggled with the latch of her trunk. Her hands shuddered as if from cold, but finally the lid was forced open, and knocked heavily against the wall. The weak lamps flickered in a draft, and she sought with growing urgency for her shawl and night things among her carefully packed belongings.

There were no screens in the room; no need for privacy, she thought grimly, and so she laid out her things on the bed. She made as quick work with the buttons of her dress as her shaking hands were able, before shoving the beautiful silk thing- oh, how she loathed it- down to her waist and then further, further, till its rich fabric met the moist, bare floor. The tangle of corset strings at her back gave her no trouble as she pulled them quickly apart, and it, too, was dropped with no care for its well being. She ripped the pins from her head, her movements rough and abrupt, and flung her hair long and loose about her shoulders. Her shoes were cast off, each rattling furiously into a corner, and she wrenched her shift over her head. Icy sweat stood stinging upon her forehead, and she stood, shivering, in the center of the room, naked and cold. She looked down at herself, skinny and pale as a white-bellied fish, her ribs narrow and poking at unmatched angles from the pressure of the corset. She felt little, and ugly, and ashamed; but her nakedness was her own, and did not yet belong to any man. Her hand flew to her lips, suppressing the urge to wretch, and then reached for her nightdress, swinging it quickly over her head, covering the exposed flesh she had forced herself to see. She walked mechanically to the edge of the bed, peeling back the coverlets and climbing awkwardly in. Her nightdress she pulled down past her knees, and, dragging the coverings up to her chin, she lay, silent, and waiting. She kept vigil in that room, with only her own self, with her own strength.

For what seemed an eternity she waited, and the wicks on the lamps grew low. The blue nubs of flame winked and wavered before finally, with agonizing slowness, disappearing entirely. The room grew dank and chill, and in the dark she breathed quietly. But her heart betrayed her, pounding a persistent tattoo against her chest, painful in its heaviness. The moon had hidden her weary head behind banks of black cloud, and no glimmer peered in through the window; nothing reflected in that deep, cold night. The sound of silence raged through that room, unbridled and unchecked; sonorous and ringing in its very absence. Not a sound could she hear from the surrounding house; no comforting scratch of mice from their burrows in the walls, no wail of a babe from a distant room. The darkness pressed like a bandage against her eyes, and still she lay, soundless in her anxiety.

The night wore on, and still he did not come. Her mind drifted in the never-ending dark, in half-shapes and cloudy senses, in vague memories with distorted edges. Childhood was a dream; womanhood was a charade. She floated, light, and aimless, in the dull, eternal blackness of the present; and all the while she waited, and held her dread close, and dear. And at length, drowsiness stole upon her, like a wraith through the mist.

The key turned in the lock, and Molly's heart leapt in her chest, her eyes fluttered wide. With a groaning creak, the door pushed open. Light bloomed again in the room; a tiny flame trembled, throwing vast, quick shadows up the walls. He emerged as a shadow, detaching himself from the gloom; and in the quiet flicker of the candle flame, his eyes were so dark that they seemed, like an animal's, to show no whites. The planes of his face shifted in the glow, cupped in his hand. He became his own doppelgänger, his twin and ghost; true to the touch and yet changed by examination of the eye. He approached slowly, not as a stalker might, though with intent, and drew a chair to the side of the bed, setting the lone candle in its holder on the dresser. They stared at each other in the bristling dark; unflinching, unwavering.

"I trust you are comfortable," he finally spoke, in tones low and melodious. The spell was broken between them, and they became but man and woman, man and wife. But it did nothing to change her discomfort or fear.

"Yes," she said; and the silence closed in on upon her small voice, and swallowed it up. She looked up, and into his gaze; and there was nothing. His glance was like a great mountain of ice; mighty, and cold, and serene. But within its depths dwelled an unexpected and harsh power, and it unnerved her to see that look now. He smiled at her, a brief drawing of his lips upward, but it did not reach his eyes.

He rose from his seat, and walked on light feet the few paces to the edge of the bed. He made to sit near her, and she flinched, moving quickly an inch over to leave space for him, loathing the touch of their skin. Pausing at the movement, he grinned again, and it was illuminated in the faltering light. The bed shifted under his added weight, and he suddenly moved towards her, both hands rising to grasp at either side of her head, drawing himself towards her. She trembled at his touch, and willed herself to be still; but a strangled sort of sound left her lips, like a dumb beast who has never known words, but understands dread. She squirmed desperately under his rough embrace, but he held her fast against the soft pillows, so that she could not move at all. His hands roamed upward on her neck, caressing the soft skin, his breath hot and wanting against her face, and she fought to turn her head away, from the smell of him, the touch of him. Her own breaths came in great unfettered gasps, as she fought with every fiber of her being against the knowledge that this was _his right._ She belonged to him, in every sense of the word, and the awareness of this choked her as she struggled against him, her eyes wet and filled with hazy panic. It simply could not be possible that the most secret of places, the most tender and guarded of her person, could be so callously infiltrated by a man she not so much despised, as feared. She choked back a sob, and he claimed her lips with his, the salt of tears tracking her face. She pushed against him furiously, but though he was not a large man, he was strong, and would not be moved. It was a lingering, forceful kiss, with the scrape of his teeth firm against her bottom lip; and in it she felt the repulsive bite of domination. And in that moment, when despair claimed her in its white, obliterating embrace, he broke away.

She sucked the sweet night air into her lungs, free from the heavy musk of _him._ He stooped quickly, and gathering the candle in its holder to him. Turning away, he passed into the shadows, towards the faint outline of the door. He flung it open, and the little ball of flame flickered and bent low in the sudden great gust. She sat upright quickly, and as rage overtook her, she flung back the coverlets and shrieked, " _Wait!"_

He paused, one hand on the door handle, like a grey, dead thing in the meager light. He did not look at her, but faced out into the black. He said nothing. And into the air she whispered in a voice grown hoarse, " _Why did you marry me?"_

A hint of teeth flashed, and only the impression of his eerie, furtive smile could she make out. "Sleep well, Mrs. Brook," were his only words, light and lilting; a merry joke. They hit her, like a true and physical force, throwing her back against the bed in sudden and desperate pain.

The darkness claimed him once again, and the door snicked shut. But he laughed low, and the sound seemed to fill the room; to ring an eternity in her ears.

 **END OF PART I**


	10. From the Journal of Dr JH Watson

A/N: My dear, awesome readers: you guys are amazing. Seriously. The outpouring of concern for poor Molly! I feel for her too, I swear. But thank you so much for all the reviews- they mean the world to me!

Couple notes: for the rating change, I will change it in due course. And as one reviewer so fantastically put it, there will be NO 'bodily fluids fest'- I can't write that kind of stuff! XD It will stay firmly in the Victorian era. And one other pseudo related thing- I've been doing the #100daysofpractice challenge on instagram and, since 'The Lark Ascending' is what I'm working on at the moment and also inspired this fic, I thought I might as well let you all know, if you're interested in hearing me play a bit of it! Be warned, it's just practice, but still- follow me at whirligig88. Ok, cheers, and thank you guys! Onwards!

X. Interlude in Two Parts: From the Journal of Dr. J.H. Watson

For the two years that I have been honored to call Sherlock Holmes my friend, I have seldom- no, _never,_ seen him in such a dire fix as this.

It began with a letter, as such things often do. I am not one to pry, but Holmes is a man who is so intensely private, that I sometimes allow my curiosity to get the better of me.

We had only just completed a rather disappointing case; or as Holmes was wont to put it, a simple and exceptionally tedious occurrence, fit only for the London police force- if only they had collective brains enough to solve it. The culprits, or we might better name them _murderers,_ were duly rounded up by Inspector Lestrade. I do not know how they proceeded; Holmes had lost all interest by this time, and seeing as the man who lay dead was, after all, a quite _bad_ man, I felt no real sympathy. Do not mistake me: I believe Holmes had his good fun at Lestrade's and my own expense, misleading us with ridiculous questions (the victim's wife's size of large toe; the scent of her particularly malodorous breath). He can be quite cruel at times; the poor woman was clearly suffering from abuse, and it became evident to me that Holmes had already solved the puzzle, and was deliberately leading us by the noses down the wrong path, allowing himself time to think. But this, you see, is the crux of it: I believe he was lost in thought pertaining to a person of the _female persuasion._ Surely not! But it is so; and I have within my head ample evidence to support my theory.

Foremost in my reasoning is his habit of letter writing: you see, it is non-existent. I had never once seen him at his writing desk, pondering laboriously over his correspondence and a clean sheet of paper, as the rest of us mere mortals must do. No: when Holmes chooses to contact you, it is with a hastily dashed off note containing none but the most vital of information. That is to say, a meeting place and time, and nothing more; or a telegram so perfunctory in its language that it would be offensive if the telegram were not, by virtue of fact, entirely irritating in its brevity.

However, I returned one day shortly after this case, to find Holmes at his desk, scribbling out a veritable novel, by his standards. His usually austere countenance was expressive; his eyes flashed, and on his lips was a crooked grin. A smudge of ink outlined the sharp lines of his face. I was astounded: who on Earth could produce such an effect on this most inscrutable of men? So, naturally, I said nothing, not wishing to disrupt this shockingly healthy form of behavior. And, after a spell, he received a letter in return, for it was brought by Mrs. Hudson at breakfast one fine spring morning. He smiled queerly at it, but on noticing my curious glance, his face was impassive once again, and it was as if I had seen nothing at all. Ah, but he could not keep up the pretense: after a few hasty bites, he left the table, slamming the door to his room shut behind him. I could not help but be satisfied, and finished off my own meal with alacrity.

You see, Holmes has a reprehensible, alarming, and exceptionally loathsome habit. It is in the lull between cases that it is often brought into the callous light of day, and so I could only thank God that he had found another past-time to carry himself into the next of London's intriguing, and often despicable, crimes. But I will say no more of it at the moment.

The letter, I could only suppose, was from some acquaintance he had made during his stay in Dartmoor, though there was no way at all that I could predict that the person in question was, in fact, a woman. In fact, I have rarely seen him communicate with the fairer sex at all, save with necessity in regards to a case, or to take out his sour tempers on poor Mrs. Hudson. The man has, truth be told, the social graces of a chimpanzee; and so I cared not to whom he was corresponding, so long as it kept him amused. It was an excellent diversion, and kept him alert during this period that could have easily descended into one of his childish fits of boredom or destructive habit.

Dusty summer was upon us, and if my observations were correct- which I believe they are, but one never can tell with Holmes- he wrote three more letters to his phantom acquaintance.

None of these were answered.

I could not name the emotions that swept through his head, nor yet could predict exactly what had befallen the relationship between him and this mysterious person. What I could tell you was that Holmes had become distraught; distant, irritable in the extreme, and exceedingly cruel to those around him who possess not so sharp a tongue- or mind- as he. To those of us that are accustomed to the many facets of Sherlock Holmes, this could be considered a mere nuisance; a behavior that we bear for the sake of friendship. I may be the only one to be named in this category; but that is another matter.

I returned one evening to find Holmes, feeble and passive; barely coherent, brooding in front of the unlit fire. A grubby mound of wood was heaped high there, awaiting a colder day, and collecting dust in its cracks. The tourniquet was deposited carelessly on the side table, the syringe lay naked and unabashed nearby. He was clad in nothing but his dressing gown and loose trousers, and at the disturbance my entrance caused, he pointed a shaky finger at an invisible subject, muttering beneath his breath. His eyes were narrowed, the irises blown wide; his hair was unkempt, and drenched with a clammy sweat as he attempted to gesticulate more fervently.

It was not the first time that I have seen him in such a state, and I must confess, it was not the last. But there was something different on this day: there was no languid, euphoric grace clouding his visage, that expression which I recognize as a moment of calm in the storm of his mind. No; this day, his glance was unfocused, but teamed with an unbridled, manic energy.

"Holmes!" I cried, starting forward. My exasperation was riddled with fear; how could it not be, on seeing this man who I loved well reduce himself to such a state with the aid of wicked chemicals? I have seen many a man decayed and wasted away from the inside out in the same fashion. Friend, it is not a fate I would wish upon any man; but upon this man in particular, it was a waste of an exceptional, radiant talent.

"Which is it today, morphine or cocaine?" I asked him furiously, and pulled him around to face me. He looked at me then, but I cannot tell what he saw. His eyes were those of a man desperate in his anger, sick in regret and sorrow. It was a hard look, and he answered me not at all, but stumbled to his feet, wavering and clutching at the arm of his chair. I caught his arm, but he shook me off with a strength I had not expected, his expression murderous. Stalking to his room with as much dignity as he could muster- which really wasn't very much- he muttered, "It was cocaine, if you must know; a seven percent solution." He swung at the door feebly, and managed to force it closed with a wretched groan. I listened for a moment, and heard the creak of bedsprings, and the murmur of displaced air that comes when a man has finally found the barest hint of comfort. Better sleep than half-dreamed brooding, I reasoned, and hastened to clean and hide his syringe kit.

It was then that I noticed a bit of paper, crumpled and thrown into the fireplace; an adornment for the grimy logs. It was covered in a fine, thin and elegant handwriting, and a crumbled seal peeked from between the creases. If it had not been such an oppressively hot summer evening, I am sure it would have been burnt to a crisp before ever I laid eyes on it. But as it was, Holmes had neither the strength, nor the presence of mind or will, to burn it. I glanced at his door: firmly closed. I doubted very much if he would rise again before the sun had traveled halfway across the sky. So I plucked the letter from its place, and smoothed it against the desk, bending low in the light of the lamp to better read the flowing script. And by God, it was in a woman's hand! So surprised at this turn was I that I almost bit out a laugh; but the expression of fury and grief on Holmes's face swam before my eyes, and I was silenced.

It was not a long letter, but my glance fixed upon one phrase: _I am to be married_. My brows became lost amidst the line of my hair: surely, this could not be the reason for his current state? I hastily reread the letter, and I must admit, it left me quite bewildered. If _Miss Molly Hooper_ had not received letters from Holmes at all- apart from, apparently, a single letter- then who on Earth had Holmes been spilling his thoughts to all summer long? It was perplexing, to be sure; but I felt quite certain that I had come to the root of his increasing agitation during the last month. If only I could make sense of it!

I am not a coward: I should think this quite obvious, having served in Afghanistan, that brutal land, for as long as I did. But when it comes to Holmes, I confess there are times when I tiptoe round him, forever on the alert for his foul moods. Oh, and what perfectly contemptible moods they can be! September was spent in an absolute wasp's nest: he sulked and raged like any petulant child, and I found him once more in the throes of a cocaine-induced haze. It took all my strength to not fling that blasted kit out the window. You see, he had found it, though I had hidden it away in a loose panel of my wardrobe. If I had disposed of it, he simply would have purchased a new one, and I had hoped that its disappearance would have discouraged his continuing habit. But I held my tongue, and let it be- though he suffered a great verbal lashing at a later hour. All the same, I kept that letter, and read it many more times than he. He never spoke of it, and I did not question it; but in my private time I scrutinized every sentence and splatter of ink, endeavoring to puzzle it all out, as I felt certain he would have.

I should have realized that he knew; indeed, how could I be such an imbecile as to underestimate him? He was not averse to rummaging through my belongings, or my journals, or anything else that could be got at in the flat- this was so illustrated by his habit of finding his kit, wherever it might be stowed away. And so when I entered my room one afternoon in autumn, already at the end of my tether with a young lady whom I had been courting, (a Miss Julia Leedswood who, as luck would have it, was an interminable bore,) it was to find Holmes seated at my desk chair, one ankle crossed upon his knee, emphatically puffing away at his pipe. There was a glimmer in his eye as he watched me enter; a sly expression that did not bode well. It was then that I saw the letter caught up in his hand, as if he had only just re-read it himself.

I stood in the doorway with not a word to say, the evidence of my misdeeds plain. I carefully removed my hat and placed it upon the bureau, as if any sudden movement might provoke him into a fouler disposition than the one he certainly harbored at present. After a moment I opened my mouth to speak, though there were really no words to be had in my embarrassment. But he quite suddenly removed the pipe from his mouth and exclaimed, "We've a case, Watson! Come, hat on, let's away." And he strode past me briskly, crumpling the letter into his pocket as he went.

"But- Holmes!" I spluttered, snatching my hat back up and cramming it onto my head. "The letter!" I shouted, clattering down the stairs after him, "Who is Molly Hooper? It was to her you were writing all those months- it must be! Why didn't she receive your letters? Could they have been lost? And why haven't you written her again? Why- "

But he whirled on me, and his eyes had turned dark. He reached for his coat on the stand and wrapped it around himself, without saying a word. "Case." he bit out finally. "We've a case, Watson; priorities." He turned to descend the stairs, but I had had enough. I put out my hand and caught his arm, holding him fast. "Who is she?" I hissed, and he jerked his arm away furiously, starting down the stairs. "She loves you, you fool!" I cried- and _that_ stopped him. He turned to me slowly, his eyes narrowed and his manner stiff. I thought he would say nothing, that I had pushed my luck too far- but instead he approached, and I held my ground. "So help me, Holmes," I said firmly, "I _will_ know what this is about. I've tolerated your behavior for far too long, and I've a right. Against absolutely no opposition whatsoever, I am your closest friend. And as such, I demand you speak to me."

He sighed melodramatically and looked at me in a sidelong manner, his expression that of a boy who has been caught out. It is at times like these that I remind myself that he is a young man, and an oddly inexperienced one to boot. I have never known him to show the inner workings of his heart to anyone save myself; and then only so rarely, and so briefly, that I might not have noticed them at all, had I not been so finely tuned to his fickle tempers.

"I've done with it," he muttered sullenly, looking away. "She's... I... " He pinched the bridge of his nose irritably, and began speaking in that quick, sure style that had become his armor; his unconscious defense towards any so daring as to care.

"Her name is Miss Margaret Hooper, we met in Dartmoor; her Mother is a tedious acquaintance of my tedious Aunt. We are- were- friendly. She is exceptionally bright, and I value her opinion. With proper training, she could be a valuable asset. I wished to encourage this, but she ceased to respond to my letters. And now it seems she is to be married, much good may it do her- an _utter_ squandering of an intelligent mind. So, there you have it: nothing more than time _wasted_. Shall we go, now? We've more important things to be attending to- "

" _No,"_ I said again, "You have not told me the whole of it. I do not believe you would have been injecting yourself with all number of poisonous concoctions if this woman were nothing more than a _false lead_ , as you so poetically like to put it! No, Holmes; _Miss Margaret Hooper_ clearly means more to you than a potential pin in your network. And while I will not push the subject, it does seem strange to me that she received not one of your letters. Surely you must have some theory?"

He sighed again, and tugged briefly at the strands of his unruly hair. "Watson, don't you see: _it does not matter!_ It is done, she is married, and is therefore of no use to me!"

"On the contrary, Holmes, I believe she matters to you quite a bit!"

"I believe that someone was stopping the letters! There, now, does that put your mind at ease? Someone did not want her to receive word from me. Does that make it any better, or worse?"

"Surely worse!" I exclaimed. "Whatever reason could there be for such drastic measures? You say she's a country girl?"

"A Doctor's daughter, and in possession of an exceptionally keen mind. Why indeed, Watson, why indeed... I cannot grasp it, though I have thought long on it. It is too nebulous, too vague... I do not have the necessary clues, other than the fact that she did not receive the letters." As he spoke, a defeated look came into his eyes; an expression which I regarded with horror. Of all people, Holmes was not one to be overcome without a fight. "But surely..." I murmured, and was rewarded with the snap of his attention towards myself, that steely glint once again in his eye.

"Surely _what?"_ He snapped, grinding his teeth in frustration. "She is certainly married by now, and it could very well have been as simple a matter as her suitor stealing her letters, in a fit of jealous pique. He need not have meddled; I did not court her! She was a bright thing, that was all; and now she is to be wasted away in a nursery with a babe at each breast. Come, Watson, we've a _case_ : something in the here, and now, which needs attending."

I surrendered then, and nodded, adjusting my hat. But as he turned, I knew the truth. Sherlock Holmes, though he may not be a man capable of love in the most traditional of senses, felt deeply for this enigmatic woman. And now that she had been whisked from his reach, he felt the pangs of deep emotional stress; a great gap had been opened in his soul, a _want_ , deep, and true, for perhaps the first time in his life. I swore under my breath, for I knew then with what that gap was being plugged, and the knowledge of those foul toxins in his veins shook me to my very core. I had seen the evidence of it not once or twice, but had returned home several times through the years to find him in a befuddled stupor, the evil tracks of that malignant stuff riddling the crook of his arm.

I resolved then and there to be the friend I called myself, and to be rid of the filth immediately, if I had to tear the flat apart in order to find it. It was just as well to have a case on, and I steeled myself to put all of my attentions on him and his work for the time being. Holmes had once saved me from myself, and now it was my duty, and pleasure, to return the favor: I owed him that much.

And so I said quickly, "To where do we go, then?" slamming the door to 221 Baker St. shut behind me, so that the knocker bounced merrily upon the wood.

"To the Diogenes Club. Mycroft requests a word about a certain Miss Irene Adler…"


	11. Tales and Prayers of Holmes the Blind

**A/N: I'd like to thank likingthistoomuch for giving me the courage to post this chapter- thank you! I was very nervous about it, but- now I rather like it. Thank you also, as always, to all you wonderful reviewers! You keep me going, and make this keep going even when I'm despairing over it (much the case at a point when I was writing this chapter!) So, read on- and let me know what you think! :)**

 **XI. Interlude in Two Parts: Tales and Prayers of Holmes the Blind**

The fire had burnt low, and the embers gleamed like glow-worms in the night, illuminating our forms against the cold darkness of a late autumn evening. The neglected lamp sputtered and smoked faintly, casting little spurts of shadow and light against the scattered sheafs of paper on the desk. I found, as I twisted my neck carefully from side to side, that I had sat long, and could barely make out the words that I had carelessly scrawled. I let out a sigh, and unfurled my cramped hands, stiff with cold and prolonged use. "Holmes," I said, breaking the silence of hours. I did not truly expect him to respond; he had moved not a muscle in all the time I had sat, scribbling out the events of our latest case.

"Holmes," I said again, and scrubbed at my eyes with the back of my hand. The man was a wonder, truly: there he sat, leaning forward to gaze into the waning glare of heat, his elbows propped carefully on his knees, his hands brought together and pressed to his lips, as if in prayer. No words would venture forth from him for a long while yet, and so I pushed myself up with a groan, and wandered over to the poker, grasping the frigid metal with an inflexible hand. I shuddered, and hurriedly stoked the fire back to a semblance of warmth, laying a fresh log on for good measure. As I lowered myself back into the chair, I felt it shudder beneath me- perhaps it would do to spare the pies, I mused, as my eyes wandered back to my work. It took a great deal of effort not to simply bury my face in my hands and moan at those foul sheets, and I wondered again why I bothered to write up these cases at all, when the words on the page persisted in evading me. Holmes had not moved, and so I persevered in wriggling in my seat, scratching my pen, and making all manner of irritable noise sufficient for the two of us.

It had grown late during my disagreement with ink and paper, and it was not long before I became so irked at the drivel pouring from my pen that I threw it down upon the desk, cursing its existence. The pen caught at the inkwell, and upset it across the work I had done, so that I jumped up, cursing the whole detestable evening. I swiped at the ink with the ruined papers- there was nothing for it: the whole enterprise was futile, as a matter of course. A tumbler of forgotten whisky stood at my elbow, and I seized it, downing the remainder of what little I had poured in a mouthful. (For stamina, you see; I dare any one of you to write such thrilling accounts as I without a glass close at hand!)

"Problem?" came Holmes' voice, and somehow the very timbre of it was an added aggravation to my sour temper. He shifted slightly to throw a questioning glance in my direction, though his overall disposition had not relaxed in the slightest.

"Damnable... I'm spent, Holmes; well and truly." I growled, and mopped again at the drying ink with my handkerchief. "I am going to bed," I flung the ruined handkerchief onto the desk for emphasis, "And God knows you ought to do so as well; you've not slept a wink since this case was begun."

The chill air blew gratefully through the doorway as I flung it open, and the flames flickered and popped in the hearth. A soft bed would do nicely- and yet, I was not there to warm it! Once step I took over the threshold; one step I took, closer to that moment when my head would grace that cold, feathery pillow- ! But it was not to be, not this night. As luck would have it, Holmes chose this moment to turn sociable.

"Have you finished it?"

I stopped, and closed my eyes, exhaling slowly through my nose. It would not do to lose my temper; after all, it was not Holmes I was annoyed with, but myself. Turning to him slowly I asked, "Finished…?" in the most offhand manner I could muster.

He deigned to turn his head then, one aristocratic brow raised in that timeless superiority he seemed to carry with him at all times, effortless in its irritable qualities. "Writing up the case, of course- haven't you been at it all evening? I only wondered." he said pleasantly. I ground my teeth.

"No, no; I will finish it… presently. When I've a moment to spare," I said, and flapped a hand vaguely in the desk's direction. "Good night." Ah, but he is a man not to be dissuaded! I had barely a moment to bare my teeth in a yawn, before he began again.

"But you've been at it for the better part of an evening."

"Yes, well. It's mostly covered in ink now, and I will have to begin afresh tomorrow."

"Have you a name for it yet?"

"A what?"

"A name! A title, Watson! Dear me, one drink and you're silly as a schoolgirl. For the case, my dear fellow. Come, sit with me; we haven't spoken in a long while. Let us share a drink." I struggled to contain my astonishment, as he turned towards me with an amiable smile.

"Holmes, I really am quite…"

"I insist," he pressed, gesturing towards the vacant settee positioned across from his armchair. I sighed in resignation; for when Holmes has put his mind to an object, he is a tenacious fellow, and there is generally no stopping him, through hell or high water. "Just the one," I groused, and lowered myself into the offending seat, propping my feet upon the ottoman. I glared at him for a moment, while the wallow and slosh of amber liquid was deposited into my glass. He smirked at me silently over the rim of the tumbler, and I reluctantly accepted the proffered drink.

After a moment, when the fire had coughed and sputtered in an attempt to cover my surliness, Holmes looked at me expectantly. "Well?" He prompted, and waited readily.

"Right," I muttered irritably. "I rather thought… _A Royal Scandal."_

"Rubbish." He quipped immediately. "What tosh! It's quite as bad as some of the tripe they print in the Strand, you know. No offense," he offered by way of flippant apology.

"None taken," I grumbled. "Well then, _A Prince in Desperate Need of His Scandalous and Destructive Letters?_ Or better yet, _His Majesty's Colossal Mistake?"_

"I rather thought," said Holmes, leaning forward with a sardonic look in his eye, " _A Scandal in Bohemia._ Has quite the ring, don't you think?"

" _A Scandal in Bohemia…_ " I mused. "Alright, Holmes, _A Scandal in Bohemia_ it is. Now," and I took a large sip of the whiskey; it burned its way down, and I winced heavily, hoping the all-seeing man would have the grace to ignore it. "I would really quite like to have some sort of rest before daybreak; I do work, you know- "

"Wait!" cried Holmes suddenly, and I looked up at him in amazement. It was only then that I noticed the sickly pallor of his face, the slight trembling to his hands. "I…" he said slowly, and looked into his glass, as if all the secrets of life might be contained within its contents. "I could use the…company. If you wouldn't mind."

Slowly, I seated myself again, and looked into the face of the only man I could truly call my friend. He would not meet my gaze, and I knew then that he did not simply wish for my company: he _needed_ it. My exhaustion slipped away, and I leaned forward, reaching out to clasp his hand briefly. In that moment his eyes met mine, and they were red-rimmed, tired; filled with a profound need that could not be met. His hand gripped mine fiercely, then slid from my grasp; and he sighed, reclining again into the high back of his chair.

"Well," I said at length, groping for a topic to fill the pause, "Miss Adler is certainly an ambiguous character, is she not?"

"Quite so, Watson," murmured he. "Quite so. I have seldom been acquainted with such an agile mind as hers. After all, it was she that… _won_ , shall we say, with her quick and clever wit."

"Ah," I said slyly, "and could she perhaps compare in intellect to the enigmatic Miss Hooper?"

He looked at my sharply, then grimaced. "No, Watson; you see, Miss Hooper and I were never at odds, if you recall; and I should think I would never have reason to sharpen my resolve against hers, as I did with Miss Adler. However, it would do you well to leave her out of this conversation: she has no place in it. Remember, she is a woman married, and as such is no longer a concern of mine. I do not even know where she is settled; whether it be in Dartmoor, or Essex, or Hertfordshire: it is all of little consequence."

"Well, then," I mused, reaching across to the side table to pour another dram of whiskey into our twin tumblers, "Who does Miss Adler compare to, if not Miss Hooper? The latter of which I shall no longer mention," I amended hastily.

"Why should she be compared to any other person?" he asked, sipping at the smoky liquid.

"You have only just mentioned that you have _seldom_ been acquainted with such a quick mind as Miss Adler's. This allows for the probability that there must be some _other_ person, likely of the feminine sex, that you unconsciously think of as you mention Miss Adler. I have caught you out, Holmes!" I exclaimed, and a smug smile, I am sure, was made plain upon my face.

"Ah!" he laughed then, and wagged a long finger in my direction. "My dear Watson, you are learning! Admirably done. You are correct in your deductions."

"And so?" I prompted, "Who is this… mysterious person?" But as I watched, his smile faded, until its brilliance was a dim echo upon his long countenance. He said nothing for a great while, but stared moodily into the depths of the ever-shifting fire. I began to wonder, as I often have, if he had mastered some form of rest allowing for one's eyes to remain open- I would not be surprised in the slightest if this were the case- but presently his finger twitched, and he shook his head, as if in regret.

"When I was a lad, I was a bit of a heathen." he said slowly, and chuckled softly to himself. "It was nonsense, but I was rather excited by the works of Defoe; and therefore was convinced that the best thing I could possibly do was to become a pirate. So we plundered, and pillaged; all the usual piratical hogwash. I do believe poor Mycroft was at the heart of most of these expeditions- the target, you might say. It was just as well, for how else could we confiscate the books that were of the utmost significance in the art of becoming clever? For this was our ultimate goal: _to become the cleverest_ , the very best. Why, even our excursions were so shaped; with elaborate plans, dipped well in the cunning which runs thick in our Holmes' blood. Childish, I know, but there you have it. You look perplexed, Watson; have I confused you?"

"Damn your riddles, Holmes!" I exclaimed, " _Who_ do you speak of? I thought at first Mycroft, but perhaps a childhood friend..?"

He laughed wryly, and replied, "How many _friends_ do you think I had, John? No, it was not Mycroft; he was tedious to a fault, even in childhood. It was my sister, Eurus."

My jaw worked for a moment, in open bewilderment. "But…" I spluttered, "but you haven't got a sister!"

"Oh, do keep up," he snapped suddenly, and I was silent, understanding that this must be a sore and untouched subject. Indeed, any sort of talk of his youth was a rarity with Holmes, who was interminably tight-lipped when it came to anything from his past. So I waited patiently for him to continue, and after a moment, he did.

"Eurus… was clever. We were all clever, you see, all the three of us. But Eurus- ah, her cleverness was diabolical! To this day I pity the many governesses who were called to keep us in check. Every one of them left in a hurry, make no mistake. I found little point in study; indeed, I preferred to learn from Mycroft, or straight from the books: governesses have such a way of turning the most profoundly interesting subjects into loathsome boredom. And Eurus! Poor Eurus- she was not given the same tasks that Mycroft and myself were set to. But you see, she often excelled at the work so often reserved for the male student. Why, even in the artistic accomplishments, she preferred the violin to the fortepiano- which, as you know, I myself play with some skill. It was considered most improper for her to tuck that fiddle under her chin; but she did it regardless of the governess, regardless of Mother and Father's wishes. Many things played out in this vein: everything that was required of a man to learn, she did better; everything that was required of a woman, she disdained with a vehemence that even I found strange.

By the time I had reached the age of eight, and Eurus seven, we had become little savages; terrorizing the governesses, displacing objects in the house much to the maids' boundless consternation, escaping the grounds to run free in the country, time and again. You see, the childlike devices of piracy may seem amusing in retrospect, but hear me, Watson: why have I adopted this profession, that of a consulting detective, bent on unraveling the crimes of the wretched? It is, in part, because as a boy, I was a barbarian. We were not so keen on acquiring physical objects; no. It was simply: _Could I win?_ We invariably attempted to outdo each other in a never-ending game, which she always won, despite my advantage of an extra year in life.

But there was respite in between our goals: the siren call of adventure beckoned. There was an old bit of forest close by, within a stone's throw of the orchard wall; and within its confines was our kingdom, our sacred ground. No bird or beast was below our mercy, and many was the time that a lark was felled by my sling, sacrificed in the name of 'science'. Anatomy, my dear fellow; anatomy was learned and examined in this way, _hands on,_ as it were. And, what a treat! To follow was the roasting of the little chit over a laboriously constructed fire, burnt to a crisp, and crowed over. By God, what savages we were! Those episodes, I will admit, were few in number, as they tasted… well, you can imagine!" he laughed softly, and drained what little there was left in his glass.

I sat in awe, hardly daring to make a sound as he related the events of his childhood. It seemed his young years had been as superlatively odd as the years of his adult life. But as he stared broodingly into the dwindling fire, I could not hold my tongue any longer. "Where… where is she now, Holmes?" I knew the answer in my heart, but this mystery which he had kept so long from me; this man, whom I knew better than any man, and yet not at all- this answer, I would hear from his own lips.

"Dead," he replied simply, and his countenance darkened. He leaned forward suddenly, and seized the decanter from the end table, topping off his glass once again. I followed suit, and waited.

"It was all over a bit of metal… a useless thing," he growled. "Here it is, if you would like a look at it," and he pulled from the pocket of his waistcoat a small metal object, and flipped it to me carelessly. It caught me unawares, and I barely seized it from the air as whiskey sloshed down my front. I scowled at Holmes, but he paid me no heed as he stood abruptly to seize the poker, attacking the embers and ash with a vengeance, pausing only to throw yet another log into the hearth. I turned my attention to the object, and turned it over in my palm. On one end were three silver triangles, and on the other the metal was bent round into a circle, so it looked very much as if it were a head with a crown placed upon it. Within the circle was a cross of silver, dividing it into four, equal parts, each of which was inlaid with a pane of clear amber. Each of the quarters was inscribed with what I could only describe as a _rune,_ such as I have never seen before; they were primitive, and angular, and put a chill down my spine, though I could not say why.

"What is it?" I asked, as I handed it back to Holmes. He pocketed it immediately, without sparing a glance for it, as if its presence had been memorized long ago.

"It is a _vegvísir,_ " he said with an air of resignation. "I know this only through a great deal of research. Not much is known of it, other than that it is Icelandic in origin, and is said to be a sort of spell, or talisman; a compass to find one's way out of a storm. But it was only a pretty thing, at the time… an object which both Eurus and I fancied. How I curse that day on which I first clapped eyes upon it!"

"Why on Earth do you keep it close, then?" I wondered aloud, and he frowned at me. "Why, as a reminder, Watson; a reminder never to overstep my reach. Well, I'm done in- shall we adjourn?"

"I should think not!" I cried, and reached out to hold him fast. "By God, Holmes, you are no Scheherazade, and I am no King! I would hear the whole of it now, if you please, or it will be another four years until the vaults of your past open again. Now, I must know the end of this horrid business: you will continue!"

He laughed at me gently, with the wan smile of a man who has no real will to resist. "Then I shall continue," he said with a sigh, and shook his head slightly. "It belonged, in the beginning, to one of the town boys; a poor, dirty urchin, but a smart lad, all the same. He was called Jim Moriarty; an odd surname, I had always thought- but then again, we were called Sherlock, Mycroft and Eurus: I could hardly complain. He was of roughly the same age as the two of us; closer, perhaps, to Eurus. Indeed, he was a strange one. I often saw him, on our trips to town, lurking at the corners, watching from a distance. He seemed to have a fascination for us- I think he had rather taken a liking to Eurus and, half-wild thing that he was, did not know how to approach her. He did not realize, you see, that we were far above his station; we were all, at that time, simply _children._ I suppose he must have followed us one day, for he began to turn up at our forest haunt. Station and inheritance matter not a whit to children; and the mere fact of his age was enough to recommend him to us as playmates. He was a quick one as well, joining in our games easily; and soon we were thick as thieves. Though he never stepped foot in the house, there was nothing that could stop we two from escaping from the hateful confines of the governess's ruling fist.

There was a stream in our wooded realm, and it quickly became our sea; our place of meeting, our place to gloat over stolen treasures. And what treasures they were! Stoppered bottles brimming with insects, bright trinkets that could be counted as pirate's gold- a veritable magpie's nest! Ah, and books: books stuffed full of forbidden information, hidden subjects, fascinating turns. It was all wondrous, each and every acquired object. Eurus and Jim excelled at this game of collection and trickery, more even than myself. It soon became a competition: I was the eldest of them, and yet I seemed always to play a subordinate part in our intrigues. I quickly became jealous of the pair; they connived against me, you see, playing off of each other to create always greater tricks against me. Soon, elaborate plans were set, booby traps were laid, on all parts: I confess it became a dangerous endeavor, with my budding knowledge of chemistry!

As time passed, I began to become aware of the strange feeling that began to creep upon me, whenever he drew near. He possessed an almost slavish admiration of Eurus; the way he followed her about with that crooked smile- and then by God, how his eyes would snap to me, once she had turned her head! They bore holes in me, John; the weight of his glance was heavy with meaning, but I could not decipher it. It was a wonder I did not cast him away from us at the first, but there was a curious sway over all parties… and he stayed. And though he answered her every whim, every beck and call, still he fought, subtly, subversively, to outdo her at every turn.

Our games then began to take a turn into the psychological: who could steal the most precious possession from those around us- and better yet, from whom? The question which we sought to unravel was _how best_ could this be accomplished: by manipulation, or by force? How did one ingratiate oneself, and understand another's wishes, desires, and possessions?

And here is the crux of it: _Eurus always won._ Every time we met in that cozy little hidy-hole of ours, down by the stream, she had some new prize to show; some strange new exploit to thrust in our faces, a cackle in her grin. In short, she would have made an excellent criminal. Ah, but with each new conquest, I watched Jim's face darken, for a just a moment, or two- and then clear, as if nothing at all were amiss. I began to sense some madness ripening between the two; competition and joy blended with a fierce hate for the other's prowess.

Now, it had not escaped neither Eurus's, nor my own, notice that Jim had a habit of of fingering an object in the pocket of his trousers, whenever he was in a nervous state, or anxious, or upset. I knew from observation that the object was small, and oddly shaped; that it was made from metal. But I never once saw it. We had completed many games, but this became the most subtle yet: who could take this object, the most precious of Jim's belongings? I was overjoyed at this turn of events, for it became clear that Jim was _disposable_ to my sister. In my foolish mind, nothing mattered save that after all, Eurus had chosen _me._

To this day, I do not know the full events as they passed, but I have assembled my memories, and collected as much evidence as I was able.

Our object was to gain Jim's treasure: that much was clear. It had become something of an infatuation; a child's piratical adventure twisted into something less innocent, and more sinister. I chose the line of gaining the object by force. Eurus chose the technique of manipulation.

You must understand me: injuring him was never my intent, but my fixation on that ridiculous bit of metal had passed from infatuation into obsession! My sister, younger than me by one year, could _not_ win, yet again. And so I set my booby traps; laid my wires, dug my pits, trussed my trees. It was a game, Watson, a _game-_ nothing more. No sharpened stakes lined my meager holes, my wires were not sharp; and yet when I had him dangling by one foot from some crumpled and aged willow, it was _Eurus_ who was there first, whispering and cooing, and laying a cool young hand against his brow. She cut him down, and took him away, to some soft corner which girls find in their womanish souls.

Ah, but females are fickle- even at the young age of seven, they have developed those feminine wiles which are indispensable to their sex. She spoke to him, and soothed him; enchanted him, easy as you like. It did not take much, for he was grateful, and angry, and lonely, all at once. Those like him, with no real family to speak of; those that are young and, perhaps, in the first raptures of fascination, are easily manipulated, and turned to the will of another. That little object, that bit of silver and amber, Watson, was Jim's dearest treasure- something left behind by his father, I later deduced- a physical something he could connect to a fantasy, a phantom dream of love; a trust in a better time to come.

Euros took it, and brought it to me, brilliant in her triumph. She had won _again,_ as always, as usual _,_ and Jim, that odd one, she had broken easily, after all. He was _hers_ , and one day, she would be the most clever woman in England, and lord over all the rest of us little beasts… by God, it was loathsome to hear her speak!

I saw Jim but once after these events- and I will never forget that image, for something had changed. It was as if some part of him had been plucked away, and with its absence, his inclination to flashing anger had turned demented, and wrong. His eyes had become black, dark as grey coal- his countenance something hard and inhuman. Never have I seen such a murderous expression, in all the years that have passed since that day… and I have never forgotten it.

Eurus was not to be found in the house, or the garden, or the stable where she sometimes went to pester the horses. But I knew where she was, where she must be. I found her body in the stream. And I knew immediately the cause of it, for I found that little amulet hanging from her neck on a chain, this… despised chunk of metal, this wretched thing. I took it, as you see, before anyone could come.

I found a dozen instances, leading irrevocably to Jim Moriarty's guilt: footprints, the pale bruises across her neck, a scrap of fabric caught on a bush which I _knew_ to be his own. Ah, how it enraged me! He had even taken a lock of her hair, cut jaggedly from the side of her temple- I can only imagine for what evil purpose. A souvenir, no doubt. He did not disguise his tracks; indeed, it was as if he wished me to know he was the cause of such foul violence, as if each imprint in the mud were a deliberate mockery of my existence.

If I had found him, I tell you now, I would have torn him limb from limb- but he was gone. I never even knew where he lived; knew nothing of him, other than he had no Father, no Mother; not a soul to call friend, save we two. The constables were called, and a meticulous search ensued- but it was no use. I never saw him again.

So yes, Watson, Miss Adler did remind me of someone: my sister, my dead sister, Eurus, who left me these many years ago. And though she was not grown, she would have doubtless grown to be a clever, brilliant, sophisticated woman. Miss Adler's manipulations, much like those of my sister's, will bring her to a sticky end; mark my words. I fear for that woman."

His words had begun to tumble from his lips, unmarked and unmatched in their fervor. I had never heard him speak such, and so I scarcely dared to breathe, as he paused, frowning, searching again in his waistcoat pocket. He brought forth again the talisman, and the dull panes of amber caught the firelight, casting flickering shadows upon his face. "This," he began again, in a strange, halting voice, "This is my constant reminder, John: that each deed you do, each act, binds you to itself and to its consequences, and makes you act again, and again, and again."

He could not be coaxed to speak again that night; his eyes were grey, and clouded, and lost in memory. And after a time, when the night had grown deep around us, and the fire was no more than a smoky shadow, I tiptoed from the room, and found my bed at last.


	12. Hearth and Home

**A/N: I am SO sorry it's taken me ages to get this up! But I was back packing, and then moving, and then in-laws, and then without internet- I'm frankly shocked I was able to write this at all based on 7 minute subway commutes. This will also be the last chapter for awhile again, since I'm going back-packing for almost a month. But I promise this story WILL continue until it is finished! I've got too many plans for it :)**

 **Thank you to all you fantastic reviewers and followers, you are amazing! Drop me a line to let me know what you think!**

 **Part 2: London**

 **XII. Hearth and Home**

The road to London was endless. She watched the world from her window as it clattered slowly by, the deliberate turning of the leaves in the growing chill a reminder of the passage of time. Her pulse fluttered at the pale skin of her wrist, as she held her hand, palm up, against the lip of the window. She watched it carelessly, a deliberate, steady throb; the incessant thrum of her heart, pumping life through her body as inevitably as the changing of the seasons.

Mr. Brook was seated across from her in the eternally jolting carriage, quietly flipping the pages of his book. Molly's attention shifted gradually from the outer world to his person. Like a cat she watched him, eyeing his every movement; but he paid her no heed. Indeed, even if there had not been another soul with him in that cabin, he could have not have acted more as if he were entirely alone. He might have been a handsome man, she thought, if his temperament had not been so frighteningly unpredictable, his smiles so alarming. As he read, she watched his dark eyes flick across the page, absorbing the words as if they could be swallowed. And all the while he did not move, save for the careful turning of a page, and the measured movement of his eyes. No flash of white teeth appeared between his lips, no gesture of amazement or displeasure in what he read. Slowly, she tilted her head down, in a surreptitious attempt to glean from what book he was reading. Her boredom had reached such a peak, she mused, that she would allow herself to study this man, her _husband_ , in as free a manner as she wished.

"It is not polite to stare, Molly." She flinched at the sound of her name, so strange on his lips, and looked quickly into his face. He did not return her gaze, but instead deliberately brought his index finger to his mouth, and licked it, languidly, before applying it to a page which had persisted in sticking. Her eyes narrowed in aversion at his display, and she looked away, into the unchanging scenery of greying forest; the trees who kept a staunch watch on those that travelled the road below.

She had been woken at daybreak by a strong rap at the door, the words of a maid informing her in no uncertain terms that she was to be dressed and underway in a quarter of an hour. The night had passed in a tangle of half-dreams and hoarse cries, wrenched from her throat in the space between sleep and waking. And so she dressed in a daze, and found herself stumbling inelegantly into the waiting carriage after Mr. Brook. There had been no time for a meal, let alone a thought as to what she might _do_ in the interminable hours that lay ahead. Her books were packed away with the rest of her meager baggage, and though she had never taken great pleasure in the domestic arts, Molly would have given a great deal for a pair of knitting needles or, God help her, simple conversation with a friend. But it was not to be, and so she cradled her head on her arm, allowing sleep to overtake her.

When she woke, the sun had climbed and fell, hanging low and pointing its sharp rays at a slant across Molly's face. She straightened, and became aware of the pressure below her stomach, and the unbearable, dry weight of her tongue in her mouth. _Water_ , she thought, and the word resonated through her body as a drop will in an empty well. Across from her, Mr. Brook sat rigidly straight, his dark eyes fixed unblinkingly upon her. He made no movement to acknowledge her wakefulness, but only stared. Her stomach clenched, and she would have blushed, if her body would have allowed it in her current state. She felt unclean, hungry and wretched, and with a shaking hand she brushed the tousled hairs from her face, wondering if she was as unkempt as she imagined.

Still he watched her, and under his gaze she grew steadily more restless, until she could bear it no longer. "Mr. Brook," she said at last, and her voice was small, and cracked. She loathed the very sound of it, and grimaced, clearing her throat. He did not move.

"Mr. Brook," she said again, and pulled herself straighter, as if she could make herself more present with this small motion. "You ought not to stare, Mr. Brook; you are making me anxious."

"You are Mrs. Brook, now," he replied then, and suddenly shifted, as if waking from a long slumber. "You may call me Husband. Or Richard, if you wish. Or Dick, I suppose; or Dicky Bird, if you are partial to nicknames." He grinned suddenly, his face lighting with a strange humor.

"I prefer to call you Mr. Brook!" she said indignantly, and drew herself up, resting a hand against the sill of the window. "I am in need…Mr. Brook, I am _intolerably_ thirsty, among other… things. Would you be so kind as to arrange a stop, with the driver?" She hoped that any sign of desperation had not tinted her words; but her discomfort, she noted, was quickly becoming urgent. He merely grinned at her, and turned to retrieve his book from the seat beside him. Opening it slowly, he caught her eye, smirked, and pointedly found his page.

She watched for a moment, as he read methodically. His lips shaped each word resolutely, as if in so doing he could deliberately test her temper. Something gave way in her then; a sharp crack like a dam that has grown too weak to hold back its flood. An old fury that she had thought had been left behind in the tatters of her girlhood poured forth in a gratifying rush of rage, red and glowing in her mind's eye. Leaning forward, she snatched the book from his hands and snapped it shut, throwing it with such force against the side of the door that it bounced back, narrowly missing his nose. But he merely beamed at her, as if pleased at her display, and she felt suddenly ashamed, as if she he had played easily into his hands. He guffawed then, in a bemused, satisfied way, and spread his hands wide, as if in supplication. In a voice as smooth as silk, his words washed out and over her. "What can I do for you, my dear?" His teeth flashed white in the greying light, glinting like switchblades.

There was something so very daunting about his abrupt change in demeanor, and she shifted, suddenly unsure of herself, the anger diffusing as quickly as it had come. "I…" she began, then paused, collecting her thoughts. "I would stretch my legs, Mr. Brook… and I would very much like a drink of water, and something to eat. I had no time to break my fast this morning, and we have not stopped once in the time since."

"Well then," he replied merrily, "it is a very good thing that I have with me some victuals, and even something, I believe, that will temper your boredom." And with that he produced from beneath his frock coat a small, cloth bag, which he handed to her. With a quizzical brow she took it, and drew back the strings. A half loaf of dark bread and a lump of hard cheese resided there, keeping morose company in the smelly bag.

"That is hardly what I mean," she said, after taking a good whiff of what was clearly the remains of his own meal, and drawing the bag shut with a moue of distaste. "Mr. Brook, must I spell it plainly? At the earliest convenience, _I must stop._ "

"Ah, but I am afraid it will not do. We do not stop until nightfall- and look, judging by the lack of sunlight-" here he passed a hand across his face, and changed his expression behind it, from that of a man delivering solemn news to a disposition of alarming good humor. The effect was startling, and Molly sat back, tucking her legs under her skirts in an effort to move as far away from him as possible. "- I am certain we will arrive at our next inn within the hour. Besides," he continued, fumbling again within his coat, "I have a gift for you. Please, accept it." From within the confines of the fabric he withdrew what appeared to be a book, crudely wrapped in brown paper. He held it out to her in a nonchalant gesture and, taken aback, she dropped the sack of fouling food- she was not yet so hungry as to eat it- and reached for the parcel with a trembling hand. Pulling at the twine that held it, the wrapping came apart in her lap, unfolding itself to reveal a book of catechism. She looked up at him with brows furrowed, and was met with his eager gaze as he leaned forward, intent on her expression. He gestured at her with one pale hand, and she let the book fall open in her hands.

Looking down, she read, _Wives, submit yourselves to your own husbands as you do to the Lord. For the husband is the head of the wife as Christ is the head of the church, his body, of which he is the Savior. Now as the church submits to Christ, so also wives should submit to their husbands in everything._

She flipped the page forward, and read on, from the verses upon verses stacked across the page.

 _A woman should learn in quietness and full submission. I do not permit a woman to teach or to assume authority over a man; she must be quiet. For Adam was formed first, then Eve. And Adam was not the one deceived; it was the woman who was deceived and became a sinner._

On, and on, and on the verses went, as the pages flowed past her fingers like an unwound skein of yarn. The words become increasingly excessive and fanatical; so thick that they seemed to putrefy in her very mind. She looked up, and her face was a mask. "This is unlike any catechism I have ever read," she said stonily, and did not hide the menace which had crept into her voice.

"It is a book fit for a wife," he replied with quiet precision, as if she could not understand him. "I thought it would suit you, Molly." His lip curled as he spoke, and a glimmer of dark humor flashed in his eyes.

"Margaret," she snarled back, and her disgust was plain. "Though I may be your _wife,_ I will never, _ever,_ be your Molly."

"Suit yourself," he shrugged in flippant reply. "Though I must insist you read it. Think of it as a continuing of your… _education."_

She stared at him a moment, struck dumb in confusion. Though she was devout as the next country girl might be, she was not so childish as to take every verse at face value. She knew, as any educated person must, that any idea pulled from its context was as good as a falsehood: it could be twisted, and manipulated into a barb, and tipped with the poison of its potential. Could he possibly expect her to so easily set aside her life, and embrace these ludicrous ideals? Was this truly the reason for her sham of a marriage, to become a helpless, willing plaything that could do nothing but throw herself at his feet? It was positively medieval! She shook her head, for she could not possibly fathom the extent of it, and so instead asked another question.

"Are you a religious man, Mr. Brook?" she spat, with as much acerbity as she could muster.

He laughed, high and merry, and the sound tinkled like a cracked bell through the night. "Ah, Margaret- when it serves my purpose, you may count me as both saint and martyr."

He said no more, but his words set the hairs on the nape of her neck on end. She shivered and bent her head, opening the book once again. She cast her eyes low, and dutifully flipped the pages. _Let him think_ , she thought savagely, _let him think I am so meek, and easily cowed. I will find my way out of this abomination of a marriage, as God is my witness._

And for the rest of the journey, she was silent, and dared not meet his smoldering gaze; never straying, ever watchful. His awareness lapped against her, like a hungry dog who eyes the crumbs on his master's lips.

 **~0~0~**

"Here is the drawing room, and here a wash closet; here the dining room… and at the end of the hall, Mrs. Brook, is your personal parlor and library. Mr. Brook had it done special, see, just for you, Mistress,"

The girl chattered on as Molly followed after her slowly, trailing her hand against the elegant wallpaper. Mr. Brook had disappeared as soon as the carriage had stopped in front of their apartments, and a serving man had scuttled inside with the baggage, leaving her to clutch at her bonnet while she stared up at the looming brick building that would be her home. The windows were large, and though the house was dull in the most nondescript of ways, she supposed a flat was a flat, if one did not intend to stay for any longer than was absolutely necessary.

She peered into the small room the maid had stopped at, and found it to be cozily furnished in dark, creamy velvets and cushions; comfortable looking chairs, and a small bookshelf, stocked to the brim. Her lips parted in surprise, for the room was lovely. But something plucked at her, some wavering unease that quivered about the corners of her vision. Frowning, she took a step into the room, with an eye to the slim titles marking the books on the shelf.

"If you wouldn't mind, Mistress, but I'm to show you to your room," the maid interrupted her apologetically, and hurried from the room to wait by the doorframe. Molly bit her lip, and followed, but determined that a closer examination of the little parlor was necessary, when prying eyes were not at hand. She had a potent feeling that charity and kindness were not Mr. Brook's driving motives, in the creation of this homely little nest, or in any of his other pursuits.

"Of course," she replied briskly, and turned away. "Tell me, what is your name, and your position?"

The girl looked nervously sideways, as if afraid of her attention. "I am Julie Heron, Mistress, and I am to look after your every need. That is what I have been told, though I have yet to meet Mr. Brook in person; I was taken on only yesterday, you see,"

Molly furrowed her brows in consternation, taking the measure of the girl. She could scarcely be more than sixteen, and was a slight, pale thing, with a nervous aspect about her. "That is hardly necessary; I have looked after myself for my entire life, and see no point in training a chamber maid now."

"Begging your pardon, Mistress, but those are the Master's orders, and I must keep to them if I wish to hold my place at all," said Julie, bobbing a hasty curtsy.

Molly pursed her lips, sighing irritably. "Very well, very well… lead on, then."

"Right this way, Mistress,"

"You may call me Miss Margaret," Molly ground out, aggravated with the girl's increasingly nervous responses.

"Of course, Mistress," Julie replied and, without looking up, started for a narrow flight of stairs. Molly suppressed the urge to snap at the maid, and followed her without remark.

The bedroom was small, dark, and windowless. Whatever hesitant gratitude she had felt towards Mr. Brook for her tiny library quickly evaporated as she stepped forward to better examine her private room. _It might be more apt to call it a cell_ , she thought in growing alarm.

"This cannot be my room- are there no others with a window- or perhaps something larger? This is barely fit for a servant's use!" She exclaimed in growing anger. Julie colored at her words, but had the grace to look abashed as she answered again, "Begging your pardon, Mistress, but these were the Master's _express_ orders,"

"But you haven't even met him, you said so yourself! Do you take me for a fool, to be so treated in my own house?" Her voice had risen in impatience, and Molly found that she was shouting at the girl, who cringed away from her. _Has it come to this, that I cannot even control my temper in front of a serving girl?_ She wondered, and took a long, steadying breath.

"I am sorry, Heron; I doubt you have much sway in the say of this household," she said in a voice that sounded tired and withdrawn even to her ears.

"I- I am to assist you in whatever you may require, Mistress, before the evening meal is served," Julie quavered, looking at the floor. "Oh," Molly sighed, and waved her away with a hand. "I require nothing; please- please, just leave me be." When the girl made no move to leave, she blew out her breath, crossing the threshold into her cloistered room. "Do you not think that as the Mistress of this house, that I can perhaps decide what I will do for myself!" she all but bellowed, and closed the door in Julie's miserable face.

Turning slowly, Molly rested her back against the door, her head bowed in resignation. Her heart pounded in her ears, and the slow burn of anger gradually ebbed to a steady flame. It would never truly leave her, she knew, until some sort of freedom could be wrung from this man. Why, oh _why_ had duty seemed such an impenetrable burden? _I should have run,_ she thought suddenly, and then laughed aloud. Run where? A wife, as Mr. Brook seemed so intent on reminding her, possessed nothing in this man's world. As a daughter, she belonged to her Father, and was obliged do his bidding. As a married woman, she was legally bound to her husband. She had no coin to her own name; not a scrap of cloth to cover her back, and no living soul whom she could call friend and ally. The inkling of a plan swept the edges of her mind, and she narrowed her eyes in acknowledgment, before firmly pushing it away. All important ideas, she knew, must never be dwelled upon, but only glimpsed. Like a simmering stew whose ingredients are the fruit of collected information, an idea becomes savory nourishment, complete and whole through the machinations of time alone.

She raised her head then, and it was with a fresh edge that she pushed herself up from the floor, shoulders squared and hands on hips. What was it that Mr. Holmes had said, all those months ago? _I simply observe_ … and she shoved all thoughts of him away, deep into the farthest recesses of her mind, to be conjured up only in those circumstances of such pitiable despair that only his face would do for comfort. But no, now was not a time to for self-pity: now was a time for action, and observation.

It took her only a few moments to take the measure of the room: a small bed settled in the center, a modest bureau; an old wardrobe, dusty with disuse and age. She sniffed carefully at the air: _musty._ The scent of mildew permeated the room, and she wrinkled her nose in disgust. So, this room had not been occupied in a long while. She wondered if perhaps it had found use as a cupboard for storage in its past life, or something equally irrelevant, as she could barely open her arms without hitting one thing or another. It was plain that Mr. Brook harbored no intention of spending this night, or any within the foreseeable future, with her in this room; so what the devil was that damnable man playing at, assigning her to such a room as this?

On impulse, she crossed to the door in two swift strides, opened it, and found herself again on the landing. Three more doors led off the hallway, although all were shut. All were as plain as her own, and identical in every way. On the tips of her toes she made her steady way down the corridor, treading lightly with an outstretched hand. Her fingers pushed against the cool bronze of a doorknob: a lavatory, one obviously meant for her use, small and tidy. The next door was locked, and she withdrew from it hastily, lest Mr. Brook was inside, and had heard her quiet attempts to gain entry. The last led to a bedroom; light, and airy, and filled with the deepening rays of afternoon sun. Her eyes roamed through the room, taking in the absence of personal belongings, the cleanliness so pristine that if it were not for the solitary book gracing the bed stand, she would not have believed it was Mr. Brook's room at all. Indeed, it was positively threadbare, and yet she knew with utmost certainty that this was where he slept. Some queer aura filled this room; some bottled and stoppered apprehension traversed its walls, nestling its anxious energy in every nook and cranny.

But there was something about that book that gave her pause; and her eyes narrowed, lingering on its cover. She closed the door quietly behind her, and made her way towards it, not pausing to think what might happen if she were caught. On closer inspection, it proved to be an old, battered journal; the cover crumbling and sticky with age, and at odds with the cleanliness of the rest of his belongings. She opened it carefully, her breath catching in her throat for reasons she could not quite grasp. Slowly the two covers fell open in her hands, revealing… nothing. Mathematical equations littered the pages, like tiny ants dotted hither and thither, marching their determined way across the scrappy paper. They meant nothing to her, each formula so complex that they had become but the fevered scribblings of a maths professor. Forward and backward she turned the pages, somehow _convinced_ that an answer to the riddle that her life had become of could be found within its depths. In a sudden fury, she scarcely held back the shriek of impatience that clawed at her throat; the will to shred the pages from the binding and throw the whole mess down to the floor. She instead upended the little book, shaking it wildly as if the action could stem her annoyance.

But out of the pages dropped… _something._ She froze, her fury evaporating in a sudden gust of premonition. She breathed heavily through her nose, her heart beating like a drum in her ears. The book fell from her suddenly tingling fingers as she dropped to the floor, heedless of any noise she might have made. The object had fallen underneath the bed, and she crouched, reaching and exploring with her fingertips, her cheek pressed up against the wood of the bed frame. Her hand swept back and forth, ghosting against the floorboards, until it met what felt distinctly like a page from a book. She frowned, and pulled the page to her. It had been crumpled and tossed, that much was plain; and as she smoothed it out against the hard wood, she found that it was covered in what appeared to be crude sketches. All of them were of the same hand and, she would imagine, from the same pencil, judging by the increasing dullness of the lines. Each of the sketches were cruder than the last; a circle divided into four, with an odd crown atop it. It was as if the artist had attempted to create something not quite lost from memory and, through the time spent at sketching, each drawing had diminished in coherency; be it from the influence of drink, or anger, or fear.

It struck her suddenly that this was _important_ , although she knew not why. She folded the paper hurriedly, and tucked it into the pocket of her dress, turning her head quickly to confirm that no one had yet noticed her absence- for she was sure that it had not been the sketches that had fallen from the journal. As she groped again under the bed, her fingers met the soft down of… was it fur? On inching fingers she pulled it nearer, until it was cupped in her hand, and she drew it into the light. Dark and curling it lay against her white palm, a lock of hair, roughly cut, and tied tightly with a grimy and bedraggled ribbon that had once shone a bright blue. Delicately she brushed its rough length, and found it slightly greasy to the touch, as if it had been handled often. Pinching it between her fingers, she brought it to her nose, and inhaled quickly: musty, she noted, and possessing just the barest hint of a dark, rich smell, which she could not place. She furrowed her brows in concentration, and crouched again to find the journal where she had dropped it, heedless of the figure who had crept behind her, silent, and watchful.

"Curiousity killed the cat, Margaret," whispered the figure, in low, dulcet tones. She cried out, and the lock of hair tumbled from her suddenly slack grip. Strong fingers closed about her shoulder, whirling her about to face the icy countenance of Mr. Brook. With a deliberate shove, he pushed her down to the edge of the bed, and then stooped abruptly to collect the fallen lock of hair. He clutched it to his chest in a brief betrayal of emotion, before stowing it away in the pocket of his trousers without a second glance.

"Stand, Margaret," he commanded, and she stood hastily, obediently. There was no shame, she reasoned, not to obey him in such a moment, when the very quiver of his body spoke of a temper barely contained. Closer he stepped, until barely an inch lay between him. His breath was hot upon her forehead, and it took all of her strength to hold her body still. " _You are not welcome here,"_ he hissed, punctuating every word so that the spittle from his lips touched her cheek. And with a movement so swift and smooth that she could not have anticipated it, he seized her by the arm, and flung her bodily against the wall. She cried out as her shoulder made contact with a sharp _crack,_ the pain a bright stab in her arm. He was on her again before she could recover herself, twisting her arm upwards behind her back, his body pressed close against hers. Molly felt her teeth sink into her lower lip, and the warm spurt of blood that followed. She sputtered, and swallowed; it tasted of metal, and fear. He lowered his head, and crooned in her ear; his voice so sweet, so lilting, so unquestionably poisonous. " _Mrs. Brook,"_ and it was soft as a lover's sigh. "You will not leave the house without supervision," he continued, holding up an index finger in front of her nose. Grunting, he held her fast as she struggled frantically against him. "You will not enter my chambers, nor my office. You will receive no guests without my express consent. In short, you will be the very model of a peerless English wife. _Do I make myself clear?"_

"Yes!" She gasped, for his arm had been slowly tightening against her windpipe, and it was all she could do to gasp in one shrinking breath after another. Flecks of hazy light sparkled about her darkening vision, and her limbs began to flail uselessly, her control diminishing like grains of sand through spread fingers.

He released her suddenly, and she fell to the floor in a crumpled heap, gasping for breath. He crouched in front of her, and tipped her chin up to him with a single finger. Her vision wavered, and his obsidian eyes gleamed, capturing her entirely. She breathed deeply, uncontrollably, from her mouth and her nose, her eyes growing wide in front of him. "You will obey me, Molly," he said softly, and lifted his other hand to stroke her face gently, as if he could smooth away the bruises blossoming across her skin. "…Or you will pay the consequences." He rose abruptly, and her eyes followed him.

"Now," he extended his hand, palm face up; a clear invitation. And after a moment's hesitation, she offered him her own hand, and he drew her up, in the tense and uneasy alliance of a man and the prey who wishes to live to see the dawn. "Shall we dine?"


	13. Into the Mist

**A/N: I'm back! Sorry! It's been a crazy month, but I did, eventually, get this done, with the help and sage advice of the wonderful likingthistoomuch- you are the best! Also, apologies if I didn't respond to your review! I didn't have wifi until a couple days ago, and my Dad used up all my data streaming baseball. (Surprise, surprise.) I appreciate each and every one of your thoughts so much!**

 **So know this, dear readers: no matter how busy I get, this WILL be finished. Unless I get mauled by a bear or crash in a plane first. Read on! :)**

 **XIII. Into the Mist**

"I trust you have slept well, my dear?"

"I have, and yourself?"

"Most well; most well indeed."

"I am glad to hear it."

The cutlery was a lively tinkling against the white dishes, their music a discordant clatter. Tiny morsels were traded from plate to fork to careful mouth; were ground upon with gnashing teeth and delivered to the incorrigible stomach acids below, all with the utmost civility and decorum. Molly sipped delicately at her tea, her back straight, her hair immaculate, her winning and gracious smile false. But still, there was nothing quite so lovely as a hot cup of tea in the morning time. She savored the flavor on the tip of her tongue, rolling the hot liquid in her mouth.

Little joys kept Molly sane, and this was one such pleasure. She kept them, and counted them, and jealously guarded them: a spoonful of honey, snuck from the kitchen in the dead of night. The hot lapping tongues of water that caressed her skin as she washed the lies clean. The secret vengeance she wreaked upon Mr. Brook in her mind, slow and tortuous, as she lay in her narrow cot of a bed. And, of course, _tea._ Good, brown tea, that she drank down with a simpering smile every morning to disguise the fact that inside, she was screaming. In short, Molly Hooper was going mad.

"I do hope you will excuse me, my dear; I will be out late tonight. Don't wait up," Mr. Brook beamed at her genially from across the long table, his eyes twinkling as if they shared some private joke.

"I shall not, then. I trust you will have a pleasant day," Molly smiled, and stood from the table, lifting her skirts clear. It was, indeed, a joke- but one not so private that the two servants could not have cracked it. Every morning they broke their fast together, and traded stilted pleasantries over their sleep, the agreeability of the eggs, the rain or lack thereof. But every evening Mr. Brook returned in the small hours of the morning; that time when stillness has become one with the dark. The sounds traveled to her through the floor, rattling the walls of her nervous sleep: the slow creak of the door being pushed open from below, the muffled resonance of a hat and coat placed again on their hooks. And always, each footstep came with a heavy, deliberate fall, a sinister drumbeat in her ears

Past her private library she swept, scowling only briefly at its plain door, before continuing up the stairs to her little chamber. A month had passed since she had arrived, each day an exquisite exercise in control. She had not dared cross Brook again, since the beating he had delivered. Idly, she passed a finger over the lip that had split, tracing the physical memory, remembering the iron taste of blood. No battle, she mused, was won on impulse alone. And so, lest she wallow in her misery, she had determined that strategy was needed, and awareness of one's surroundings. Like broken shards of pottery scattered across a floor, Molly gathered the experiences to herself. They spread themselves for her examination, and in her mind's eye, she palmed them, and studied them, and carefully fit them together. But the enigma that was Mr. Brook was vast, and full of holes.

When she had awoken on the morning of her second day, and thrown aside her coarse coverlets in the grey dawn, she descended from the landing on light feet, clad in nothing but a stiff, serviceable nightdress. The third and fourth stairs creaked, and she paused, listening. The furtive sounds of a household stirring slowly to wakefulness met her ears. She continued her quiet way down the stairs, her little bare feet clever and quick, until she found her hand pushing gently at the door to her private library. Ah, but here there was light!- and she turned her grateful face to it as a young bud will turn to the sun. Embedded in a charming alcove there was a small window, whose pale morning light illuminated the chamber. She had smiled, in what had felt like the first real touch of pleasure in many months. The light was a balm to her mind; a relief that she had not known she was in need of after the cloistered darkness of her room. The street below had begun to awaken, as the sunlight pierced through the remnants of a meandering mist. Here a maid had swept a stoop, there a street urchin, eager to earn a penny, shoveled at the piles of horse dung scattered at artful increments, the stench ripe and rising to the apartments above. It was a far cry from the life of the country. She had wondered privately if the stink of the city alone could recommend her to follow Brook's command to stay indoors, though she considered it highly unlikely.

As she had paused to examine the books lining the shelves, the faint beginnings of her good humor had fled. The titles on the spines leered down at her, the jagged lettering contriving beastly faces of their own. _Woman and Sin_ , they read. _The Keeping of a Good Wife. Accomplishments Acceptable in the Female Gender._

Her face had become stone as she seized a volume and flipped to the opening, heedless of any damage her carelessness caused it. _Women,_ it read, _have become enamored of the value of accomplishment. To be sure, the art of dance, or of the visual arts, are those that must be encouraged in a budding female. The author does not, however, recommend that any woman be pushed into the arts or any such method of study that may distress her mind. In our changing world, the fairer sex have lost their biological purpose to the cesspools of original thought, which dallies in close quarters with the dangers of original sin. A woman is meek, and a woman is mild; and any of those that breach the limits God has bestowed upon them is a danger unto themselves, and to our society as a whole, and should not be dealt with lightly. The treachery of woman is known by all, and so I will beseech you in the continuing volume: Men, hold fast to your swords, for the role that God has bestowed upon us is that of the true and righteous path. Tolerate not the Woman who strives to topple the rightful order._

Her blood was ice as she read the words: the work was clearly that of a fanatic. The same, she was sure, could be said of every other book gracing that abhorrent library, and she had shuddered violently. For what, then, could be said of Mr. Brook? _For what purpose did he hold her here?_ She had only managed to snap the foul volume shut, the blood roaring in her ears, when the door had swung open. There he had stood, in all the baleful glory that a tasseled dressing gown could muster.

"Good morning, Mr. Brook!" She had warbled brightly, her voice ringing high and hysterical in the stillness between them. A grin had stretched slowly across his face, a grimace that shone gleeful pleasure as he took in her posture.

"Good morning, Mrs. Brook." he replied softly. Closer he had come; one step, and then another, until his sweet breath was hot upon her face. "I trust you have slept well?" he murmured, and offered his arm.

"I have," she rejoined and, hesitantly, took the proffered arm as he swept her towards the dining room.

And so the game had begun.

 **~0~0~**

"I was quite sure I left it just here! The letter I wrote to my parents- Julie, have you not seen it? The ink was barely dry this morning."

The girl looked over her shoulder carelessly, before returning to her dusting. "Oh, no, Miss Margaret, I en't seen it. Only, the Master probably took it- he takes things like that, I seen 'im at it. I don't think he approves, Miss,"

Julie stared at her uncomfortably for a moment longer, before returning hurriedly to her work. It was her own _damnable_ fault, Molly thought savagely, and threw herself upon the rickety bed. How could she be so naïve, so _careless,_ as to let something so potentially volatile be left in open view? She knew full well that Mr. Brook often rifled through her belongings, weeding out the objects and keepsakes he found undesirable, without even bothering to cover his tracks. _When_ he managed to accomplish these tasks she hadn't the slightest idea; for he was scarcely seen about the apartments, save for the early hours and breakfast.

One by one her books had disappeared: first the many volumes of the medical science, then her adored novels, followed by the anatomical sketches she had painstakingly completed over many hours. On the first instance that she had found a torn corner of one of her drawings gracing a dusty corner, she had nearly broke, clutching the scrap to herself in a miserable reminder of the simple life she had once led. The blind panic that the walls of her prison instilled in her surged to new life, and she would have given in, shrieking and screaming, had she not demanded her shaking limbs to stand, one hand clamped like a vice over the mouth she could not quite control. Numbly she had stooped, and pulled the now-battered Gray's Anatomy from the back of the wardrobe, letting it fall open as she collapsed again into an awkward position, sprawled on the ground. It had remained miraculously untouched, perhaps to serve as a reminder, though she knew its days were numbered. Slowly she had stroked its pages and determined that this book, _this_ at least would not be taken. So away it was stowed, under a loose floorboard she had found under the bed. If that hidy-hole was found, then truly there was no place she had to herself, save within the confines of her mind.

Not a week later it disappeared. She had pulled achingly at the loose board, scrabbled at it with fingernails long and bent and bloody- and there was nothing. Nothing but the dust, and the nails, and the loss. All that remained was the book of foul catechism, placed in the center of the hole like a vicious, mocking reminder.

And so it was that she cursed her mindless stupidity in leaving that letter lying about, regardless of how subtly she had penned her pleas.

"Something wrong, Mistress?" Molly looked up from where she had been staring absently at the wall, and found that time had passed, slipping by in fits and bursts as it was wont to do in this weary house. Julie had finished the dusting and stood pausing by the door, a mildly concerned expression wrinkling her thin face.

"Nothing," she murmured, "Nothing is wrong." Looking down at her hands clasped loosely in her lap, they seemed like pale, dead things. No blots of ink stained her fingers; no function did they serve, save opening doors, or guiding a spoon of bland soup towards her mouth. She felt useless in a way that paralyzed her. What could she possibly do, how could she live like this? _Should_ she live like this? She had considered, briefly, of simply ending her life. Wouldn't that, at least, be something interesting? Something to look forward to, something red in the bitter and interminable grey of these last three months? But no: for then he would _win_ , and though her pride had been all but extinguished, she would not give Mr. Brook the satisfaction of knowing just how much suffering he had caused her.

"Oh, but I nearly forgot," Julie said suddenly, straightening and dropping the duster to the floor. "You've a letter! Where is that blasted thing…" She rummaged in the pockets of her apron, while Molly winced as spools of thread, a pair of scissors, and a myriad of thimbles came tumbling out, accompanied at long last by a somewhat crumpled, floury letter. _She really is a terrible maid,_ Molly thought, _but at the very least she is another soul in this wretched household, and for that I might be grateful._ Holding out her hand for the letter, she smiled a small smile. She wondered briefly if perhaps the expression had been read as a grimace, for Julie cringed and, bobbing a quick curtsy, fled the chamber.

Looking down at the crumpled letter in her hand, Molly started in surprise, for the careful script on the outside read _Mrs. Margaret Brook, from Dr. And Mrs. Benjamin Hooper._

She opened it apprehensively, smoothing it against the bedspread, and read:

 _My Dear Daughter,_

 _How it brings joy to my heart to have received a letter from you! I cannot tell you with what gladness we read it. I am overjoyed to hear of your budding happiness, though I must admit, I was surprised. You left in such cold anger, my Molly, that I feared you might never wish to speak to me again. I was most grieved by this- but I thank God that you have seen reason, and are so large-hearted as to see this marriage through. Indeed, from the way you speak, we should not be so astonished if you were to send us a happy announcement within the following months._

On the words marched across the page, but she saw not a one of them. Fury blossomed before her eyes, a physical rage that obscured her vision. The myriad implications unfolding from the appearance of the letter were now disappearing between her fingers as she pulled and prized the words into meaningless, glib letters. Such an outrage was this, such a _violation_ of her few scattered remnants of privacy, that it left her speechless. In her mind's eye she could see him, her _husband,_ sitting by the low light of the lamp at his desk, his dark eyes glinting as he wrote with an artful flourish to her parents, under her guise. How he had managed to so faithfully capture her own hand, she could only guess; though it may have been simple enough by means of a flimsy excuse and the use of one of those abominable typing machines. Her Father, at least, seemed so blinded by the apparent reassurance of his wrongdoings that he would swallow any lie, no matter how implausible it might be. In truth, she could not even fully blame him, for a man will always believe what he wishes, no matter the evidence produced before him. Bile rose in her throat, and she shut her eyes fast against the roiling rage and disgust that warred within her. Something had to be done, something _must_ be done: she could not go on.

 **~0~0~**

In the dead of night, when the meager household slept, she listened to the stunted sound of her breathing, overloud when all else was still. Her heart beat a solemn tattoo in her chest, and she laid a hand under her breast, feeling the steadfast organ that was her lifeline; her constant companion from birth to death. Time, in its inexorable way, marched onward, unforgiving and relentless.

Molly found that her life as Mistress of the Brook household was a tight-wire, one that she tread with absolute caution and sense. Every step she took, every syllable she breathed was one that was measured and judged, not simply by herself, but by Julie, by Soames, the valet; and most scrupulously of all, by Mr. Brook. She had become the heroine of a particularly dreadful play; the sort of clichéd melodrama that carefully selected its victims and pulled them implacably towards their dreadful fate. She loathed her role, and yet was fearful for her mind and person. On the one hand, Mr. Brook had not laid a finger upon her since that first day, and had required nothing of her, apart from her firm submission to the rules of his house. On the other, Molly found her temper and control to be _fickle_ in the presence of so many restraints. A woman, she had found time and again, had certain duties in the eye of society. She was quite aware that she had barely succeeded at any of them save, by unhappy chance, that duty of marriage. Yet it seemed preposterous that she should be so miserable; that, indeed, she was bound to their apartments, and had scarcely breathed a whiff of fresh air- _if,_ she thought mulishly, _you could call London air any semblance of fresh._ Constantly she weighed her choices, as if they could be put upon a great scale, wavering back and forth with the application and diminution of thoughts. Was it truly better to watch and play the part, to collect information and wait for the opportune moment? Or must she bolt, like a fleeing animal in the night, on impulse alone?

Her thoughts turned on a spider's web of half-dreams to that first night, and the specter of pain reared its ghastly head. Again, Mr. Brook threw her with apparent ease; and again, and again… She examined his ghostly visage as he turned to her, wreathed in smoke. Shells for teeth, and weeds for tongue; his eyes dark and flashing like onyx set in smooth wood. Who _was_ this man? What other… _consequences…_ had he at his disposal?

Another web, another shuddering turn in her mind's eye, and there was that hulking brute of a man, Soames… his hair a vivid red, _too_ red, a flame that caught and would not be quenched. _Could he be in Brook's keeping?_ The thought wavered, a spindly vein of light piercing the unconscious- then was shuttered, and brushed away. The flame sputtered, and was drenched by sudden great windows of grey and blue sky, cold and penetrating, filling her with vast relief. Yet when they focused upon her, she knew they were not windows at all, but eyes. _His_ eyes… she basked in their glow, and felt the tears wet on her face as she reached out to him; for now he had become man, and looked down upon her, the touch of a smile illuminating that ethereal face. Her outstretched palm was warm, and she felt his presence as fully as if he were truly there- and yet there was nothing. He had gone, and only the shadows moved against her, blanketing and veiling her in thick shrouds of grey fog. She cried out for him, and then _screamed-_ and all at once the fog departed, in howling shrieks and wispy tails.

There, in her dream, the lark appeared; ever her strange companion, ever the harbinger in fate's twisted game. Grown from the ether and shade, it trilled a high song, cocking its head. Beady eyes gleamed down at her, and its golden wings spread. There, clutched in its yellow grasp, a trinket lay: silver and amber, with a crown of three luminous points. It shone like a star in the night; a jewel that is at once beautiful and dangerous. She extended her hand toward it, slowly, ever so slowly- but the bird emitted a harsh cry and, with a wink, was gone.

 **~0~0~**

She woke suddenly, and did not know if she looked out, or if it were her own eyelids that gazed back at her, so complete was the dark. Pushing herself upright, she groped soundlessly for the candle in its holder on the side table. Her cold hand found its colder handle, and she clung to it, lest it be lost again in the grasping shadows. A match was found, and light flared; a beacon of phosphorescence in the gloom. Fumbling around her neck, she withdrew the tiny pouch that nestled between her breasts on a crude leather thong. She had become accustomed to its presence in the last months, keeping close those few possessions that were most dear and indispensable, should the need for sudden flight arise.

In the meager light, her treasures glowed. The dull gold cross, given by her Mother when she was small, she held in bent fingers, ducking her head quickly to grace it with a swift kiss. A few coins, hardly enough to buy a paltry meal, tipped into her palm, and were abandoned on the bedspread. And her trembling fingers paused, before they pulled from the pouch the object that had stirred her to wakefulness. As she held the slip of paper close to the candle's wavering light, the hairs on the back of her neck prickled in uneasy premonition. With alarming clarity, she stared at the maddening sketches- that bright little thing the bird had clutched in its claw. _There._ She had known without knowing that some relevance was heavy within these drawings, though she could not yet name its significance. The paper was thin, and not of good quality, and in some sections the pen had pierced through in its fervor to make clear its mark. She traced the impressions lightly, then stopped. By the flickering light, she could just make out a handwritten line on the opposite side. Flipping it inquisitively, she bent to better read it. In curling, elegant script, it read, _Eurus adfuit._ And below, in a faint, painstaking scrawl that took the better part of the page, _JIM ADFUIT._ She squinted at the writing, her brows furrowed as she dredged up the remnants of her Latin study. _Eurus was here, Jim was here._ A brief lesson in Latin, perhaps, from Eurus to Jim? But who _were_ these people, that Mr. Brook had stashed such a decrepit slip of paper away in his journal for what, judging by its age, could only have been a very long period of time?

A door slammed below. Molly froze, her heart beating so quickly that it was painful. Fear like a bolt of lightning shot through her, her stomach suddenly contorting in excruciating dismay, sweat trickling down the nape of her hot neck. Without thought she blew at the flame, spattering the burning wax onto her fingers. Darkness enveloped her with its quaking, smoky tendrils. So harsh and ragged were her breaths that she clamped a hand over her mouth, lest _he_ might hear them. The faint brushes of a coat being shrugged from lean shoulders reached her ears, of a hat tossed carelessly onto the stand. They clicked, _one, two, three,_ the deliberate footfalls and groaning wood coupled with the weight of man reverberated in her eardrums. One hand scrabbled to stuff the trinkets back into the pouch, while each heavy _thud_ brought him nearer. _God help me!_ She all but screamed- but no one heard. The dull roar of his footsteps drew close, and stopped. Both hands clamped her mouth shut, and still Mr. Brook stood. Outside her door he knew- he _must_ know- that she sat awake in the dark, panting like an animal in a frenzy of fear. And not a finger did he lift; not a sliver of the door handle shivered in its berth. Several breaths did they trade, and the air blew from one body to another: they faced each other through the wood, and knew all.

He turned on his heel- the shuffle of new steps began anew, and retreated, farther, farther; until there was the click of a latch. A door opened, and closed.

And Molly breathed.

Adrenaline thrummed through her veins, icy spiders that crawled and pinched and spurred her to action. Swiftly she crossed the room, retrieving the lamp from its perch on the wardrobe and lighting it, with the sour stench of burning oil quick on its heels. It cast a wider light, a warmer glow than had the candle, and in its hazy sphere the shadows were chased from the room, scurrying first this way and then that. She donned her warmest dress, heavy wool stockings and thick flat boots. Her shawl she tied about her shoulders, her gloves were stuffed unceremoniously into her pockets. The bonnet was a harder matter, but in the end she stayed her trembling hands and worked the twists and tendrils of her hair into a knot, securing the whole mess with a hat pin.

She looked about herself, into the depths of the hated room. Was what she carried now on her person- was this _truly_ the sum total of what her life had become? _Well, then,_ she thought resignedly, _I'd best be off- plans be damned._

Cautiously she pushed the door open, and peered out onto the landing. Dawn broke over her, like a roaring bull through the hall; the streams of sunlight ripe and full. It engulfed her, and met her gaze, before retreating as she stepped her careful way through those welcoming rays.

 _Haste,_ she thought, and without a second glance, she fled down the stairs, skipping over the creaking steps, nimble as a dancer over the treacherous floor. But as she crossed the entryway, she stopped cold: for there was Soames, silent and scowling, sitting with his burly arms folded over his stomach. His head was bowed over his chest, and as her heart pounded in her ears, she heard the faint roll of a snore issue from between his lips. Her eyes darted to take in the droop of his lids, the slump of his shoulders, the curl of his shirtsleeves rolled to reveal burly forearms that protruded from beneath. A thin web of tattoos spidered across the muscle there, and Molly's eyes narrowed at the sight of it. This man was no valet, no servant: this was a hired blade, a person kept for the sole purpose of keeping her in. She took a moment to marvel again at the lengths Mr. Brook had plainly gone to- _why me?_ Before steeling again her resolve, and creeping forward on whispering feet.

He had clearly drank himself into a stupor- the flask bound to his hip was evidence enough of that. Ah, and the key, how had she had nearly forgotten it! It lay, clutched loosely in the grip of his meaty palm, a teasing twinkle of dull brass. On baited breath she made her wary way towards him; oh, but it was _too_ simple. She plucked the heavy key from his hand with not the slightest forethought. The planes of Soames' face twitched, his unruly brow jumped- but he was in the throes of a liquor-infused dream, and she knew he would not be woken. The creak of a door sounded from upstairs, a heavy groan against the sleepy sounds of awakening. _Out of time, Molly- swiftly now!_ Her heart hammered in her breast, but her hand was firm. In the key plunged, turned, and out again it came, and she gave not a thought to the grating of the lock beneath her ministrations. Hastily she closed the door behind her and, on sudden inspiration, she locked it again behind her, stuffing the key into the pocket of her dress with sweaty palms. Down the stairs she clattered; one, two landings, and yes, there was the door, _there_ was freedom- a muffled shout was heard above, and a curse and crash. No time, time had run as sand through a sieve- and out she darted into the drowsy street, like a little silver fish who has escaped its hunter.

" _Molly!"_

Her name was shouted from above, in a voice of savage fury and spittling anger. She could not help it, she glanced up: Mr. Brook stood, with his wild head protruding between the windows shutters, flung wide to the morning. He was as he had been, that first day she had laid eyes upon him: a man who was not quite human; her jailor, her phantom.

" _Devil take you!"_ She screamed up at him, her voice hoarse and feral in its madness. She did not look about at the stable boy who had stopped to stare, nor at the maid who stood with her mouth agape, chamber pots half-emptied into the river of filth that flowed beneath their feet.

Molly turned, and ran into the grey dawn; into the empty, misty streets of London.


	14. Murder!

**A/N: Sorry sorry sorry! I know I've kept you waiting an abysmally long time.. but I had to cut the chapter in half, it was just getting much too long. Look at the bright side: first draft already finished for the next one! Thank you all for reviewing, you are so encouraging! And thank you most of all to likingthistoomuch, who puts up with my random queryings and general bombardment of bits of drafts. You are the best! :)**

 **(Side note- I'm American, so sorry if the Briticisms/Cockneyisms are not quite up to par :/ )**

 **XIV. Murder!**

" _Molly!_ You there, hold her! _Ten pounds to the wretch that catches that ungrateful hag!"_

"Wot's tha' 'e said?"

"Eh?"

"'Ere, tha' man, o'er there, in th' window! _'E_ said ten bleedin' pounds to the lucky sod wot catches 'er!"

Little pattering feet pounded in a frenzy of sudden surprised movement. The sounds of four became six, six became eight, and the urchins passed the intoxicating message from one shrieking maw to the next; a dangling fish, rapidly torn to enthusiastic scraps.

" _Ten quid! Ten, 'e says!"_

Molly ran as though her very life depended on it- which was, the thought flitted through her mind, not entirely far from the truth. Her boots slapped at the pavement and muck, an abhorrent _squelch_ ringing in her ears with every mound of filth she plunged through. But there was no time to stop, no time to think: her lungs burned with an abominable fire that worked its aching way from the inside out, squeezing the air from her body with gleeful fingers. Her feet were soft from disuse; her muscles quaked, screaming in hysterical protest- but onwards she pushed, _on, on!_ As if the pack of greedy little urchins who tailed her were the very hounds of hell.

Like squalling birds they came, gaining on her with the speed and agility that God gave to all children. Their high falsetto voices squawked and yelped, coming together and away again in some peculiar music, a chorus of furious greed. Perspiration trickled down her neck, between her breasts, cupped in the cupid's bow of her upper lip. Her hair had come tumbling down within minutes, the hat pin just holding the bonnet to a rogue twist at the back of her neck, while her shawl flapped out behind her like an ungainly lark in flight. Hitching up her skirts past the knee, she urged herself faster, _faster_ , as the screeching children snapped at her heels. Their little puffing breaths were a sinister pulse in the stinging air, their bony fingers plucking and pinching at her billowing shawl. A sudden _yank-_ and she shrieked, the warm fabric ripped clean from their fastenings. On she ran, through the slowly filling streets, pushing and shoving through the little knots of outraged men. Chancing a cursory glance behind her, she saw that the shawl had fallen to two scrawny girls, pausing to examine their prize as they squatted in the street like buzzards over carrion. But the boys were not so easily distracted, and pounded steadfastly after her, the glint of hunger, of savage _need_ , burning fiercely in their squalid faces. Bearded men in battered working clothes, men with neat caps and pockets full of jangling coins, men with dour glances and rotted teeth jumped from her path as she barreled past, her elbows bared as points that shoved those that were too slow aside. The baying horde followed quick as darts, and she flung herself into one alley, then another; and out again into a large street teeming with cabs. Horses snorted in the brisk air, their breath a haze of smoke flung in every direction. The caps had transfigured into gentlemen's hats, and the few blooming feather-dusters that graced ladies' bonnets tickled the mist that descended upon them all, shrouding the streets and alleys into mere guesswork and hunches.

Still they came on, in their tens and twenties, and she knew fear such that she could not be ashamed of. Children, we must never forget, may be small; but they are small _people_ , and thus should never be underestimated. For when life deals a blow, it hardens the soul of a child, just as it would harden that of an adult; and the gleaming reward of _ten pounds_ is more money than any of those youths had ever dreamed about in their soot-encrusted little lives.

It was this, and the increasing need for relief that caused Molly to to fling herself from the crowd, off the pavement and into the teeming street. She darted in front of a cab, and the startled horse screamed, rearing up in terror. The threat of hooves- edged clubs, blunt and terrible- loomed high above her, and she shrieked wildly as it kicked into the air, its driver thrown clear and panting in the filthy street. Away she stumbled, tripping over the uneven cobblestones and only just catching her balance. The trailing ribbons of her bonnet caught in the wheel of a passing cab, and the whole mess of hair and pins were wrenched from her head along with the accursed thing. She yelped, clutching at the back of her head; her shaking fingers passed before her eyes speckled with blood. But there was no time to dwell, _no time! -_ and she flung herself at the back of a passing carriage, gripping at its spine as she balanced precariously in a crouch on the mid-iron. Her heart pounded wildly in her chest as the trap bounced along, and she watched, eyes wide, as the children faded into the throngs of gray and white men, their sooty, hungry faces turned up to the dusky morning light.

She felt then a guilt so severe, a pang so physical that it tore at her, deep in the recesses of her soul. She clung like a mad thing as she watched them, and remembered as the voices and movements and odd, stifled colors flew past, what it was like to feel. _Dog eat dog_ , wasn't that the pretty saying? She grimaced as the dull ache at the back of her head bloomed in full, and carefully unfolded herself into a sitting position, leaning back and allowing her legs to swing, her hair to billow, in the chilly morning air.

Morning stole about the people of London like the grey mists will creep upon the mountain side. So slowly did it move, at a pace so glacial, that not a one noticed when the Sun finally raised her weary head, her faint fingerling rays piercing men's beating hearts with the faintest touch of joy. The adrenaline had faded from Molly's blood and, for a spell, she was content simply to watch over the scene. As the trap bobbed along, the frantic energy that accompanies the beginning of every workman's day began to mellow. The once teeming streets thinned, and horses paused at the sides of streets, their noses buried deep in bags of grain. It was simple, in the end, to nod off; their pace slowing to a lilting, measured sway, a lullaby to her exhausted form.

"'Ere, woss this? Geroff, ye damn tramp!"

The voice cut through the waking dream like ice through water, and her lids flickered, open and shut. He stood, there, _just there,_ while the carriages whirled by; tall and elegant, his hands clasped together upon a walking stick, his piercing glance beckoning and sure, an amused smile flitting about his lips.

 _Mr. Holmes…_

"Eh? Woss that?" The driver bent before her, and peered into her unfocused eyes. "Ye' all righ'?" A bewhiskered, greasy face swam into view, and she jumped from her perch, straining to see behind the man. He turned to look as well and- _nothing_.

A small hope she had not been aware she kept broke within her chest, and the air escaped from between her lips in a great gust, her eyes squeezing shut in the wake of such romantic absurdity. How could she have possibly harbored the hope that _he_ might simply find her, here in the depths of this simmering city, and sweep her off her feet? Had she expected it? Had she given the merest thought to what it might mean to run off in a place she knew nothing of, with a scant twenty pence to see her through the coming night? _Rash, Molly, very rash._ But done was done, and she would make the best of it.

She turned to the man, who was now scowling fiercely at her. "Excuse me," she said politely, and gifted him with a small, wry smile. Her eyes roved over the street, choosing the least threatening path, and fell upon it with careful, measured steps, head held high. "Wot were ye doin', hangin' off the edge o' th' bleedin' cab fer? Ruddy dang'rous, tha' is- ye ought ter be more careful-like, Miss!" He shouted after her, but either she did not hear, or did not care to turn back in acknowledgment.

The cold bit at her gloved fingers, and sank with a vicious throb into her ears, icy and deliberate. Slowly she drifted through the streets, her feet moving automatically as she glided between the men and women intent on their own business, shoulders hunched and brows furrowed like pointers on the scent. Her hair was a frightful mess, her dress splattered to the knee with churned mud and manure; the hem had ripped, and trailed listlessly after her. In short, all semblance she had once possessed of a respectable woman had vanished along with her shawl and bonnet. But it was a small price to pay, she reasoned, for her freedom; for her escape from that wretched house, and the sinister man who lived within.

Her steps ground slowly to a stop, and she found, with a humorless quirk of her lips, that she had paused in front of a dress shop. Staring up through the glass, the words _Johnson and Johnson, Tailors, Dressmakers_ winked down at her in blue ink. Displayed in the window was a lovely, dark green velvet dress, with a smart jacket to match. She crept closer, and peered up at it wistfully, remembering the days when a dress or a book were all that was needed to turn her fancy. Such days those had been; simple, and carefree.

Pulling her fingers slowly through the snags and tangles of her hair, she continued on her way, past townhouses and ladies in fine carriages, past tea shops and confectioners, past pie shops whose warm fragrance tickled at her nose, eels twined rhapsodically in their windows like lovers in a dance. The steady rhythm of her booted feet gave way to nagging blisters, twinging and pulling with every methodical step. But every print upon the pavement served as a reminder to her situation: for what, exactly, could she now do with her newfound freedom? She had scarcely enough money for a meal, let alone lodgings for the night. Who, then, might she turn to for assistance? _His_ face drifted through her mind and was immediately dismissed; a puff of smoke blown easily aside. Even if the man were in a position to help her, _would_ he? She was, after all, now a married woman, no matter how unhappily, and had informed him in no uncertain terms she required of him to cease all further communication. Besides which, the disdain he clearly harbored for her had been put on prominent display: after all, he had sent her only the one letter, in all this time. That she had made more of his strange kindness and ludicrous mannerisms was entirely her fault, and hers alone. No; Mr. Holmes was not one to whom she could turn, even if she _had_ know of his whereabouts, or better yet, his address. Sherlock- _Mr. Holmes_ \- would not, _could_ not help her out of these straits.

Then, she reasoned, the only avenues left to her was the aid of her parents, however increasingly imbecilic they were determined in becoming. A telegraph must be sent, much as it pained her to part with a few of her precious coins. But it gave her a mission, at the very least, if not a warm bed to lay her head upon in the night-time. What she would do then, she did not know; but fate, it had always seemed, had a way of laying her course. _One step at a time,_ she prompted herself, and continued with a brisk pace, looking attentively about her for signs of a post office.

Within an abundantly short amount of time, it became quite clear that a post office would not simply materialize in front of her nose, much to her intense regret. Nervously she patted at her hair, ensuring some semblance of presentability, and glanced about the street. There had not been so much as a sniff of those that were surely hunting for her, which both soothed and prickled her nerves. _Come, Molly- ask. Do what must be done,_ she counseled herself, and stood a bit straighter as she marched toward an amiable looking fellow, who had set up a small operation selling papers on the street corner.

" _Papers!"_ The man shouted as she drew near, " _Get yer papers 'ere!"_ He was a portly sort, swathed warmly in a thick coat, a scarf tied haphazardly about his throat in lieu of a collar. He stood upon an overturned crate, the better to hawk his wares to the thinning crowd of people that bustled about the street. Two thick stacks of papers lay at his feet, tied loosely across with twine. Their letters were a comforting dark scrawl, rejoicing in the world's turning; a reckoning of the myriad lives that continued on while her own life had been locked away.

He did not seem to be having much luck at selling them, for as she approached, he climbed laboriously from his perch, looking quite put out and muttering curses under his breath. Catching her advance, he looked up hopefully, an anxiously cheerful grin sprouting across his face. "Come to get a paper, have ye, Miss? Keepin' up with the times and all? Mighty strange world we live in, mighty strange!"

She smiled apologetically at him and nodded before replying, "Our world is truly a strange one, I cannot deny it! Sir, could you point me in the direction of the nearest post office?" She shivered, clutching her arms about herself as a sudden draft of wind cut through the street. The paper seller's grin vanished, and he scowled, eyeing her balefully. Her own smile faltered, her body tensing warily in the unbidden habit of a creature who understands when to stay put, and when best to spring away.

The man straightened and turned slightly, the beginnings of a second chin spilling over the edge of his scarf. "Post office, ye say? 'S one not two streets down- over that way," he gestured easily, flapping his hand in a general leftward direction. "That sign, wiff th' pretty lady's shoe? Give it a righ' turn, at that corner, then on down another street. Ye won' miss it."

She thanked him, relaxing slightly as he gave her a gruff, "Don' mention it," and continued on her way down the long avenue. The man watched her keenly for a moment, then evidently decided that she was a customer lost; or better yet, never a customer at all. Stooping to retrieve his abandoned paper, he heaved himself ponderously back atop the crate, pulling his hat snugly about his ears. Pulling a long breath of brisk, London air into his lungs, he bellowed, _"Papers! Get your papers 'ere! Read all the news there is t' know! Another ghastly murder- another! Are your ladies safe in their beds, gents? Paaapers! Papers! Third woman found in a series of grizzly murders! Scotland Yard is on the case, but where is Mr. Sherlock Holmes? Will 'e catch the culprit, or won't 'e? Get your papers! Papers! Paaaaapers!"_

Her heart skipped so vigorously in her chest that she thought it might leap from her very body altogether, panting and seizing in agitated frenzy on the pavement. Turning abruptly, she found her feet had flown of their own volition back the way she had come, hurtling over all who stood in her path. Charging up to the paper man, she tugged at his sleeve desperately. "Sir," she said breathlessly, " _Sir,_ did I hear you correctly? Did you mention Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

He glanced at her, snuffing at the cold air through his corpulent red nose. "I did," he replied matter-of-factly, waving the paper over his head. "Wot's it to you then, eh? Got a mystery that needs solvin', do we? Lost yer man, 'ave ye?" He leered down at her, then cupped his hand around his mouth, shouting, " _Papers! Paaaapers! Get your papers 'ere!"_

She tugged at his sleeve again, in a panic that throbbed desperately through her veins. "Sir, _please_! If you would- where can I find Mr. Holmes?"

He dropped his arm then and looked directly at her, his face breaking into an incredulous smirk. Bending down to have a better look at her, he laughed; a short, breathy thing that was rank of garlic and old meat. Barely containing her disgust, she raised her voice, asking once more, " _Mr. Sherlock Holmes!_ Where can I find _Mr. Sherlock Holmes!"_

He straightened, and guffawed down at her, wiping a frayed coat sleeve perfunctorily across his nose, the better to stem its flow. "Find him? _Find_ him, she says!" He laughed uproariously to the passers-by, who hurried along, sniggering beneath their hands. "Love, how would _I_ know where to find Sherlock Holmes? 'E's an enigma, you see- goes where 'e likes, an' all that. 'Nigma- tha' means a _mystery,_ you know," he said knowledgeably, and tapped the end of his weeping nose with a ruddy finger.

"But surely he must live _somewhere!"_ she exclaimed, her desperate voice tinged with a flush of anger, her cheeks pink and her eyes flashing. He sobered at this, and leaned down again to peer at her more closely. "Just what're you needin', Miss? If you don't mind me sayin', yer lookin' a bit rough 'round the edges, if you take my meanin',"

"I simply need to see Mr. Holmes," she sighed. Just as suddenly as it had come, the fury dwindled from her voice, and in its absence she found herself desolate, pathetic; a shamed woman, in a shameful position. But he merely shook his head, clearly dismissing her. "Miss, surely you understand that I'm not privy to such things! How on God's green Earth would I know where 'e _lives_?"

Molly threw up her arms in exasperation. "Well then how _can_ I find him? I must see him!"

"Look 'ere, Miss: _I don't know._ He might have taken an ad in the paper 'ere, or 'e might not. He seems to be plenty well-known t' the police; 's possible one o' _their_ higher ups migh' know,"

Her eyes narrowed as he spoke, and she moved closer, squinting up at the paper clutched in his meaty paw. "You say he took an ad?" She murmured, her gaze sharp and penetrating, as if she could see through the very paper to the words hidden beneath. "Might I..." her hand emerged from beneath its black leather glove, peeled clean to better grasp its goal. The paper man took a quick step back, glancing quickly behind him as he teetered on the edge of the crate. He steadied himself wildly, glaring down at her as she stared up at him with a steely glint in her eye, white hand poised imperiously in the air. "Might I have a look at that paper, Sir?"

He shook his head slowly, the beginnings of anger furrowing his brows. "That's six pence, love," and he, too, opened his palm, "Righ' _here."_

"Come now," said Molly sweetly and, after a moment's hesitation, clambered up onto the crate beside him. The paper man shuffled, clearly uncomfortable with their proximity. His eyes darted this way and that as she laid a hand gently on his arm, a sheen of sweat breaking out on his portly face. "What're…" he began, but quick as a whip her nimble fingers flashed, and down she jumped, her prize clutched in her clever grasp. A few scraps remained in his upraised fist, and he looked from it to her wary face in bewildered astonishment. They stared at each other for all of a moment, her hard gaze meeting his surprised one, the cogs of his mind visibly churning in sluggish cogitation. She knew, a split second before his mouth opened in an outraged shout- and for the second time that day, she turned tail and _ran._

"Oi! Stop 'er, thief! _Thief!"_

The words rang out after her, attracting the curious looks of pedestrians as she darted past them, the battered copy of the _London Gazette_ clutched tightly in her fist. All sensibility, it seemed, had departed, as those three words, _Mr. Sherlock Holmes,_ had left the other man's lips. When had she become so susceptible, so alarmingly impetuous? _When had she become a thief?_

It was beyond absurd, but there it was: she ran, ducking and swerving, around carriages and cursing men, around miserable children that clutched, wailing, at their mother's skirts. Her eyes flitted this way and that; a blur of sound and the color grey in its immeasurable shades reconciling into the present only as quickly as her aching feet twirled on. _There,_ he stood at the corner of her vision, a gloved hand covering a laughing grin. And _there,_ in the tea shop, he stood in the window, and looked at her with a serene visage, the sharp blue of his eyes twinkling like the mad dart of a candle flame; _I am mad, I am mad!_ Gasping, her toe caught painfully against an upturned cobblestone, and she careened headlong into a flower-seller, upsetting the basket of posies that balanced upon the woman's hip. Down they went, in a volley of shrieks and little white blossoms, the pitiful things bent and bruised and trampled into dust.

"Sorry- _sorry!"_ she blurted, unable to help herself as her head knocked achingly against the pavement.

"Look wha' you've done!" the woman shrieked, quickly bending to right the basket and salvage as many of the posies as could be managed. Molly winced, pushing herself upright with an aching hand. The paper lay just out of her reach, torn and bedraggled. _MURDER!_ it shouted at her, it's tall letters alarmed at their own audacity. The pounding of feet, of shrill whistles in the muddled air buzzed in her ears like fretting insects, and she reached for it- _run!_

A strong hand grabbed at her elbow, yanking her abruptly to her feet. She cried out in surprise, hardly bothering to look round as she struggled, straining towards the abandoned paper. But the owner of the hand was much stronger, and he shook her sharply, cuffing her bluntly upside the head, not so much to stun her as to stop her struggling. Dazedly she looked up into her captor's face, and found that she was in the keeping of a constable, his hat cocked awkwardly on his head as he stared down at her in vexation.

"For goodness sake, Miss, don't make me strike you again!" he puffed irritably, tightening his grip on her arm.

" _Sir_ ," she cried, "I have done nothing wrong; please, let me go!"

He eyed her sternly as she attempted to wrest her arm from his grasp once again, his brows furrowing in exasperation. "Now, Miss, we both know that's not true. It seems you're a thief!"

She slumped in defeat as the words sunk into her mind. _Thief._ "Well," she muttered, "I only wanted to see it, but he screeched so _loudly_ \- how could I not but run? That does not very well make me a… a _thief!_ "

The constable chuckled at this, loosing the grip upon her arm only slightly. "Nothing for it, Miss. Still have to take you in. Now, come with me; easy does it, won't do you no good to struggle, you know it as well as I." She glared at him a moment, and he in turn stared passively back. Recognizing that defeat and possibly aid were, in this instance, one whole, Molly nodded slowly, the set of her mouth grim. And so they shuffled awkwardly down the avenue, turned a corner, and were gone.

A young boy, not more than ten years of age, leaned casually against the wall of a tea shop, watching the scene unfold with a shrewd gaze from below his grimy cap. Indifferently, he detached himself from the wall, small and nondescript; a creature easily forgotten in the thrum of footsteps and heartbeats that flared through the streets. He disappeared between the legs of adults, into the comings and goings of a hundred different folk, his fingers swift, but his keen mind swifter.

And the paper fluttered, lonely and abandoned; the makings of flotsam in the wake of living dreams. _Murder!_ It shrieked, in silent dread.

 _Murder!_


	15. Crime and Punishment

**A/N: Ok, guys: TRIGGER WARNINGS. Don't want to give it away, but, just in case. Thanks as always to likingthistoomuch for putting up with my ramblings, and whipping me into shape! You are amazing! And a big thank you to everyone who reads and especially reviews! Your words mean the world to me :)**

 **XV. Crime and Punishment**

In the end, she was deposited in a small, windowless room. Save for the addition of a scuffed wooden table with two stools tucked meticulously beneath, it was not so different from her own hated quarters. She stood a pace into the room and shivered, looking back anxiously at the constable. He hovered by the door, and offered a hesitant, sympathetic smile. "Stay here, Miss; Inspector'll be in shortly to speak with you."

"The- the Inspector!" she exclaimed, her voice faltering. "Surely a... a stolen _paper_ could not merit such rigor! Why would the Inspector care to speak to _me?"_ A small, niggling doubt lodged itself in her mind then, an uneasiness which could not be entertained for any longer than a moment. It must have spoken plainly on her face, for the constable grimaced, and his kind eyes looked away before closing the door heavily behind him. The gas lamps flickered in their stands, casting odd shadows from corner to table, table to rickety stool, stool to shifting folds of her shabby dress.

She stood awkwardly, one hand resting lightly on the wood of the table, worn smooth from use. The walls were bare and nondescript, a dull white-washed color verging on grey. The constable's ponderous steps echoed down the corridor, fading as he turned the corner. She sighed, peering through the grate in the door to be sure of his absence, then quickly tried the knob. Locked. _Obviously._ For when in her current state had she ever encountered an _un_ locked door?

Lifting her skirts unceremoniously, she sank onto a stool, the ripped and fraying edges of her dress bundled onto one side. Her tired head soon found its way onto her fist, propped upright by her elbow on the table. What had these walls seen? Brigands, and murderers most vile? Surely she could not be considered one of the criminal classes for such a petty crime? She could not make out if her detainment were a good thing, or an altogether very _bad_ thing. After all, the question of a roof over her head had been settled for the night. Although a prison was not an especially clean space, it was a far cry warmer than a bare nest on the streets of London. She had, of course, begged assistance from the young constable, and found him to be a kindly man with rosy cheeks and a mop of fine blond hair- and a steely grip that could not be broken, no matter his sensitive attitude. But when she had questioned him on the answers she had truly sought- _Sherlock Holmes, have you heard of him? Do you know where I can find him?_ She had been met with a noncommittal, if somewhat vacant, shrug.

It seemed that all thoughts of sending a message today must be abandoned, to either her parents or Mr. Holmes. But perhaps the Inspector would be a kind man, one that would take pity on a woman whose husband was clearly abusive. Her fingers traced the now familiar path over her lip, catching at the corner that had never quite fully healed. Whatever the fates brought her, she would meet it head on. Hadn't she done just that, through the passing of all these months?

Idly, she tugged at the strings of the pouch tucked away under the collar of her dress. Pulling it out into the wavering light, she fingered it, a half-smile crossing her face as she drew forth the little gold cross. _One must never forget, my dear, that God watches over as all._ It had been meant to be worn as a charm, to protect her always, her Mother had said bemusedly, as she fastened it about her neck. She had been young, and sick, and miserable, tears streaming as Mrs. Hooper pushed the damp hairs from her face. _And you will be better soon, you will see!_ Tears threatened now to overflow, and she clutched the little cross to herself, sitting upright, eyes wide, breaths deep. _Strength, give me strength!_

The sound of footsteps drew sudden and near, turning the corner and ringing on the stone like a dire, clattering instrument. Choking back a gasp, she hastily stuffed the cross back into the pouch, and with shaking hands forced the whole bulky thing back into her bodice. Rising swiftly, she turned, and stood tall: be it friend or foe, she would be strong, _God help me!_

The door had opened, casting another shadow to join the others spilling across the room. A gentleman stood in the doorway, his fine clothes blurred and indistinct as he entered the room, trading the fairly lit corridor for the uneasy semi-darkness in which they now stood. His eyes were bright and canny, though small; his hair neatly combed, reaching halfway round his face in a fine bit of beard. But his lips were thin, and the markings of a perpetually down-turned mouth radiated outwards across his face, twisted now into an unmistakeable scowl.

Molly stood a bit straighter, her hands clasped tightly behind her back as she gazed doggedly back at him. He looked at her with distaste, his eyes lingering on her neck as he staidly moved past her to seat himself on the opposite end of the table. _Ah,_ she thought shrewdly, _So. Not a friend, then._

"I am Inspector Gregson," the man said by way of greeting, gesturing for her to sit. His face was quite expressionless, verging on the taciturn placidity of boredom. She bent, dragging the stool towards her. It scraped against the floor, a heavy grinding that echoed off the walls in a clamorous noise that left her ears twitching and her eyes wincing. Gregson looked up, cocking his head at her, his eyes narrowing as he drew from the pocket of his waistcoat a pad of paper and pen.

"To whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?" he asked, as he set the pad carefully upon the table.

She stared at him, a thousand possibilities racing through her mind. Surely Mr. Brook had informed the police of her disappearance: the question remaining was, had she any rights in the matter? Who _was_ she?

The silence stretched on indefinitely, Molly twisting her hands in her lap as Gregson's eyes bored into her. He cleared his throat finally, and sat back in his seat, one eyebrow raising in clear annoyance. "Well, then, Miss: speak up, we haven't got all day."

Again she said nothing, her lips parting and closing again, her voice trapped on the edge of her tongue. Leaning forward slightly, he laid his hands upon the table, rising partially from his seat. "I insist you speak, Madam! Give me your name, or I shall force it from you." There was no menace in his voice, but a simple, cool sincerity, assuring her in no uncertain terms that he would do whatever he deemed necessary to procure her name.

"Molly," she blurted suddenly, _After all, what's in a name?_ "I am Molly… Hooper. Miss Hooper."

"Miss Hooper, then," Gregson replied, and took up the pen in one hand, jotting her name carelessly across the paper, the other hand resting casually on his crossed knee. "I hear that you have taken it upon yourself to steal a newspaper, Miss Hooper." He did not look at her, but continued to scratch at the pad.

"Inspector," she spoke hurriedly, "I assure you, this is all simply a terrible mistake!" She laughed lightly, and the sound traveled upward to join the restless scratching of the pen, mingling together in a disquieting burst of unease.

"Then you did not," he replied, after her laughter was abruptly stilled, "steal a newspaper on Abernathy Road at approximately ten past ten this morning?"

"I- what I mean to say is- "

"You do not deny it. I see."

"No! See here, Inspector, I meant only to find an address, but the man would not let me have a look. I would have given it back immediately, once I had found it but- but the Devil had my feet, God help me! And I could not but run, Inspector, the man _frightened_ me, and I could not think! I am… I am sorry for it," she trailed off breathlessly, staring earnestly at the man- but he did not look again at her. The line of black ink grew ever longer as it stretched its stolid away against the white paper; lines begat lines, as Gregson muttered under his breath, emphasizing certain words with a careful mark of his pen.

"Inspector," she said in a low voice, "Inspector, if I may- I know that Mr. Sherlock Holmes is… is _known_ to Scotland Yard. Could you… would you tell me, of his whereabouts? I would dearly like to speak with him."

At this Gregson looked up sharply, his lips parted and his eyes narrowed, his countenance stern. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes," he replied, holding her gaze in his flinty-eyed stare, "is of no use to Scotland Yard. He is a scoundrel, and a braggart, and this fine organization will not be tarnished by his association. Now, I'll have that six pence, Miss Hooper, and two pounds as a fine for your misdemeanor, if you please."

She could not help it; her brow furrowed, her lips parted in a laugh as she exclaimed, "Come now, Inspector, a _scoundrel?_ I grant you, he is an arrogant man, and undoubtedly a braggart to boot, but scoundrel is hardly the word I would choose!"

Gregson stood abruptly, his eyes flashing furiously down at her. "Madam, he said stiffly, the coarse hairs of his beard bristling, "I did not present myself to discuss matters that are _beneath me._ I came to have a look at the lady who has caused us so much trouble this afternoon. I was led to believe that you were some lovely young thing, but I find the same could be said of any harlot that spends an evening between cell walls. Now, if you would, _Miss Hooper_ ," and he extended his hand, white and large and possessive of all the subtleties of a meat cleaver, "I will have the two pounds and six pence."

Molly stared at him incredulously, impatience beginning to color her words. "Inspector, I do not _have_ two pounds and six pence upon my person. If you could help me send word to my parents in Dartmoor, they would gladly arrange for the money to be sent." At his continuing impassive silence, his robust palm hanging in midair, she continued defiantly, " _Or_ you may contact Mr. Holmes, who might be willing to vouch for me. I know that he, at least, lives in London."

Gregson smirked then, and leaned against the table with one arm. "Well, well," he remarked, "We are presented with a lady- lost, no doubt- in the middle of London, with not two pounds, six pennies to her name."

"I have," she retorted, "two shillings; that is all I can give you."

"And what, pray tell," he continued, speaking over her as if she were not even present, "were you planning to do, with such a scant amount of coin? It's hardly enough for a night's worth of lodgings; perhaps you intended to head for the docks, hm? You've hardly the face for it, but that's not what matters," he stated matter-of-factly.

She blushed hotly with shame, the blood rushing to her face in a sudden fit of temper. "How _dare_ you insinuate- "

"What is it that you have got round your neck?" he asked suddenly, pointing at her person.

Her hand flew to the collar of her dress, where the pouch lay hidden in a bulky lump. She looked away, forcing her hand to do the same. "Nothing. My two shillings, nothing more."

He stepped closer, forcing her to lean back into the table. "Let's have it, then." His hand appeared again from beneath the neat cuff of his jacket, impatient and demanding. Her eyes darted up to his, and his expression was one of stone.

"It's all I have!" she protested vehemently. "Inspector, please- couldn't we wire- "

"I'll have it, Miss Hooper, whether you give it to me, or I must retrieve it for myself. Give it here, girl; the whole pouch, if you please."

Reluctantly, she tugged again at the strings round her neck, drawing the pouch forth and laying it upon the table. Gregson reached forward, plucking the little bag up in his large fingers, and unceremoniously emptied its contents. Two shillings and four pennies rolled in opposite directions, winding down to small circles on the grimy wood. The scrap of paper followed suit, and on top of it all, the little gold cross lay. She held her breath as he picked it up, holding it to the light of the lamp as he squinted at its fine working. He rubbed it between his fingers, then brought them to his nose, inhaling deeply.

"Gold," he said simply, and pocketed the cross, sitting once again upon the vacant stool.

"Inspector!" she cried furiously, jumping to her feet. "You cannot take that! It is _mine_ \- I have not given you leave- "

" _Leave,_ Miss?" and his voice was a roll of thunder, an imperious sound shot through with menace. "You _stole,_ Miss Hooper. And I therefore have _leave_ to take anything of you that I please." His eyes roved indiscreetly over her body, pausing at the flushed whiteness of her neck. He grinned speculatively, his round lips wet and taut, stretched sickeningly over his teeth. Shivering at his callousness, Molly remained standing, her fists clenched, defying him to act. But he only laughed and waved his hand, dismissing her easily. "I am, however, a gentleman; and as such, will take only what is owed me. And what is this?" He reached out, and plucked the paper from the table.

"No!" she gasped, reaching across the table before her mind caught her instinct. She could not say why she defended it so fiercely, yet she knew with some extra sense that it was important, and would not be parted with it. But he was too quick, and raised a brow at her as he scanned the markings, then flipped it over succinctly to be sure it was of no value.

"I beg of you, you have already robbed me of my cross- and God _will_ know of that crime, and judge you for it- but would you take a keepsake as well? _You,_ Inspector, are the scoundrel!"

He sniffed at her, his lips pursed in distaste, then dropped the paper back to the table. "You may keep it, then- it is worth nothing to me," Idly he collected the coins to himself, before dropping them in his pocket alongside the cross. "Waste not," he murmured, patting his pocket, and stood to leave.

"But what is to become of me?" she insisted, standing as well. "You cannot lock me up over something so insignificant!"

He paused, his hand resting lightly against the doorframe. "Oh, no, of course not, Mrs. Brook. Your husband will be here to collect you shortly."

And with that he slammed the door behind him. The key turned in the lock before she could so much as scream.

 **~0~0~**

"You must excuse my wife, Inspector Gregson; I fear she is given to fits of increasingly fanciful eccentricity."

"Come now, Mr. Brook; whose wife is not?"

"It is a curse, I think, that their sex must bear. The shock of moving has frayed her nerves greatly!"

"Ah, I would imagine so- a large move is hard on the strongest of minds."

They talked over her as if she were a dog; a little pet that trots dutifully alongside its master, dumb and mute. And Molly stood with her head bowed in Brook's shadow, quietly seething, allowing the words to fuel the future vengeance she _would_ take.

"Thank you, again, for notifying me so quickly! I must admit, when she disappeared I feared the worst- she is not, as they say, the sharpest tack in the box. And indeed, if you had not found her I am quite sure we would have found her frozen corpse in the morning. The weather is getting on, you know! Did she have no coin on her as well? Ah, tut, tut, Margaret! Leaving without a chaperone, _and_ in the earliest hours of the morning- it's highly inappropriate! I've told you time and again… there now, you see, Inspector, the impudent look she gives me. But tell me, if I did not scold her now, would she not simply do the same, again and again?"

"Women," replied Gregson, and a vacuous smile spread over his hard features like melted butter, as if that sole word were enough to sum up the entirety of the female's vices.

"I am not a fool, you know; I was simply trying to escape you," Molly said, her voice cold and thin and full of undisguised malice. The two men glanced at her, then at each other, and burst out laughing.

"There, you see! The silly thing is entirely ungrateful. Come, Margaret; it is getting dark, we must return. Don't think to run off again, there are men here aplenty that would have you back with me in no time at all. No, don't even think of it, you've learned your lesson, I expect! Oh, Inspector, it quite slipped my mind- how is the case coming along? Have you caught the killer?"

Gregson's face soured, his mouth twisting like curdled milk. "Alas, I am afraid we have not; he is still at large. Though we did recently acquire some useful information, which seems to be leading us in a very positive direction. Yes, I am certain there will be a quick end to it all,"

"That is well!" exclaimed Mr. Brook, his expression brightening. "You are, however, aware of my… thoughts on the matter?"

"Indeed!" Gregson nodded vigorously. "Yes, I have given it a great deal of thought myself, and intend to act on it as soon as we have acquired sufficient evidence."

Mr. Brook clapped his hands together once, a smile breaking over his face. "Splendid! Excellent work, Inspector- and again, thank you ever so for the part you have played in returning my wife to me. I sometimes wonder why I bothered to marry at all- but there you have it. What's done is done! Ah, and here, Gregson, here is a little something for you… to ensure my gratitude is constant and unwavering." The clink of coins travelled from one palm to another, a flash of silver caught the light and shimmered across her vision, before vanishing quickly into the Inspector's pocket.

His eyes were shrewd, and his smile was a fox's grin as he replied, "The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Brook."

They clasped hands and parted, Molly's reluctant steps following them like constant and true shadows, echoing down the corridor.

 **~0~0~**

Night fell as they approached the familiar town house, its white facade ghostly and looming in the emptying streets. Not a word was spoken between them, and Molly sat, suspended in her thoughts, staring out at the lamplighters making their tedious way from post to post. As the cab rolled up to the gate, Mr. Brook jumped out, crossing to the other side and opening the door. He held his gloved hand out to help her from the high seat, his expression one of polite and kindly concern. She ignored it, instead jumping down from the trap without so much as a glance in his direction. He smirked, and after paying the cabbie, followed her inside, shutting the door behind them.

At the foot of the stairs she turned, and looked at him pointedly. "I am tired; I will go to bed now." she said in a measured voice, and continued on her way to her room. He nodded sagely, and after a moment, trailed her movements smoothly; a pleased hunter who tracks its prey. Feeling his presence, she went more quickly, and threw open her room- and it was perfect. The items she had so carelessly tossed to the floor were gone; the bed was made, the bureau was in neat order. He had known she would be back. Of _course_ he had known.

The click of the door closing startled her from her musings, and she hesitated in turning, knowing who she would find. But she kept her dignity, and with a cold challenge in her eye, she shifted to meet his glance, chin raised obstinately. Mr. Brook stood close, a calm smile upon his face that did not reach his black, sparkling eyes. Raising a hand to her dress, he fingered the soiled material lightly. "You'd best change," he said mildly. "You look a fright, and those clothes are filthy. Take them off, Molly."

She stared at him, unmoving, uncomprehending, her mind an abrupt blur. He raised a long, manicured brow at her, and ran a hand through his dark hair. "Well?"

"I will not!" She exclaimed, spurred to sudden rage at the indignity of his request. "And certainly not within your presence!"

"As you will, then," he shrugged, his voice a lilting melody. He stepped closer, and softly touched her sleeve, his face open and questioning.

"I will _not,"_ she said in a voice low and dangerous, though inside she quaked to her very core. His lips quirked in an understanding smile, and he nodded- but quick as a cat he seized her, ripping the filthy dress from her body in one strong, swift movement. The remnants hung on her like a dead thing, and she was left in her white corset and drawers, pale and trembling as her hands flew to cover the budding of her small breasts. She cried out as he seized her bare arm with enough force to bruise, before delivering an aching, back-handed slap that sent her crashing against the wardrobe. The heavy ring on his hand connected with her cheek, imprinting and tearing at the skin as she landed in a heap on the groaning floorboards. Spots flared before her eyes, and she cried out wordlessly as her head cracked against the ground. The pain blossomed in her head with the blunt force of a hammer against her temple. Clinging to her awareness as it slipped between darkness and light, her hand reached up to gain purchase against the wardrobe, to pull herself upright before he descended upon her again. The ragged scraps of her dress clung to her, catching at her fingers and falling away in shreds. Her split cheek pounded a throbbing tattoo, the warmth of spilling blood indistinguishable from the fire of the wound.

 _Where was he?_ She opened and shut her eyes, once, twice, the fierce pulsing of her veins an excited roar in her ears as she fought to look about herself with as much coherence as she could muster- but he had come behind her, and now gripped her hair sharply, pulling her up and back. She shrieked as he hauled her against him, her scalp raw with the force of his enraged jerk.

"Your words are… _unfeminine."_ He growled in her ear. "You will do as I say, do you hear me!" Furiously he tugged at her hair, wrenching backwards as she scrabbled at his hands, her nails scratching in a frenzy of torment. And so it was that she found herself again at his mercy, wounds raw and beating in agony, a fresh blow to the hard shell that held her person. Salt tears fell from her eyes, mixing warm and stinging with the blood on her cheek, staining the clean white of her corset a brilliant pink. Seizing her arm in his own, he twisted it back and away, away from her body, so that the bones screamed and popped in agitation. Darkness clouded her vision like a gray wave, enveloping her, consuming her, until all grip on reality began to fade into a tiny pinpoint of continued, painful breaths. No- _no!_ A small part of her raged, and awareness burst like a shrieking train from her lips, " _What do you want of me!"_ And his hands departed suddenly, only to fall again about her waist, scooping her roughly as if she were no more than a rag doll. He threw her onto the bed, and she lay on her side, heaving in thin breaths through her hurts, through the abominable ache of the corset. _Air- air!_ She needed air, and yet it evaded her, her fingers limp as they skittered across the fastenings.

"Your... _consciousness..._ would be prudent..."

An entirely new element of fear slammed through her, and her eyes flew open, pushing the haziness aside as she struggled to sit up. He sat beside her, roughly pulling the spattered corset apart, a mess of whalebone and fabric and ribbon landing like filigree across her stomach. _Air,_ close and mottled with the stench of sweat and blood, sank into her lungs, and she breathed it in, sobbing in relief and aversion as she struggled to push him away. For he loomed over her, madness in his eyes, strings of hair clinging to his wrists like sodden ropes, his face speckled with red.

Incoherent horror claimed her then, and she _screamed,_ long and loud as he held her against the bed- and stopped abruptly as he slapped her. The flaps of skin torn from her cheek were pulled further asunder, the pain searing through her like a knife that has been kept in flame.

" _Listen!"_ He roared, and wrenched her upright, his spittle falling like raindrops on her upturned face. "Sit and _listen to me,_ you wretched woman- there are things we must speak of!"

She struggled, the weight of his body heavy against hers, and he raised a hand in warning. She could not help it: she shrank away, reduced to baser instincts born of blood and pain and tears.

"Listen _,"_ he insisted again, and shook her slightly in his urgency. " _Listen,_ or by God my hand will let fly, and you may not see the end of it."

She stilled, biting her tongue at the effort it cost her not to lash out, to push away. Her mouth filled with the tang of metal and warmth, and she nodded desperately, a jerky, uncontrollable movement, the natural fellow to impulse and adrenaline. He stepped back then, and let loose her arms, watching her narrowly for any violent movement. But if she had thought his release would reduce the pain, she was mistaken; for it exploded anew in the slow manipulation of shoulder to elbow, elbow to wrist, wrist to bruised and bloodied fingers.

Mr. Brook sighed once, a great heaving thing that seemed to issue from his very core. He paused, considering, then dragged the chair from the corner to stand before her. Sitting heavily upon it, he crossed his foot upon his knee, and his hand draped delicately upon the slight protruding bone of his ankle. He scrutinized her, taking in every curve of her form; every line, every crease, every movement. Through a dim fog of disbelief she waited, her awareness wavering on a knife's edge of possibility. He seemed to be before her, and yet, he did not seem real; a threatening mirage, a reminder that reality was only the counting of physical hurts. Did she live, did she breathe? His eyes were burning coals; bright, burning circles, burrowing into her, consuming her…

"Molly, my dear," he said finally, as if she were a little child who had done something very naughty. "You have cost me a pretty penny, did you know? The keeping of a woman is not cheap… nor was this little _escapade_ of yours today, this little adventure. Did you not think I would find you? You are _mine_ , Molly; you are my _wife_. The sooner you understand that, the better it will be for you." His words lapped at the edge of her reason, and still she stared, her eyes vacant windows into a stunned soul.

But somewhere in the deepest recesses of her mind, her fingers moved. She was aware of her half-clothed state, and in some stirring corner, her gaze swept slowly over the swelling bareness of her breasts, the peaked nipple that peered through the stained cambric. Mechanically, she plucked at the bed-linens, pulling at them feebly to better cover herself. She did not look at him as he laughed, his eyes glowing holes, his voice light and cheerful. "Now, now, there is no need for over-modesty between us! I see I have alarmed you. Well, go on, then, I give you leave: speak."

She lifted her eyes to his, and found him mercurial, volatile: a man without a fixed position, a man whose mind flitted erratically between possession to dispossession, calculation and absurdity. He drew her in, and she found the dark curtain lifted from her mind; as if he, with invisible movement, could mould her to his will. She opened her mouth, and wet her lips; measured her words, found her tongue.

" _Why…"_ The word crackled in the air, wrought with the need to be answered. It lingered, like some tangible object; a curio that could be caught, and examined at all angles.

He let out a great bark of laughter, and the shimmering tension that lay between them popped like a soap bubble. "My dear!" He chortled, "you are here as leverage! The culmination of whim and fancy, nothing more; do not think so much of yourself."

"Then I- I shall petition for divorce!" She burst out, rage and hope, those opposing forces, working in tandem to compel the words from her mouth.

"Ah, but _how_ will you, pet? Have you evidence? _Proof_? I have not dallied with any other woman," he remarked, spreading his hands wide. "And what coin do you have at your disposal, that you might hire a solicitor on your behalf? Certainly not mine."

She collected her thoughts, and slowly, pieced them together. Her body threatened to overcome her- she was tired, _so_ tired- and yet the fragments of words, of her endless and cruel circumstance, snicked together neatly, and could not be suppressed. "This… marriage… it is _not consummated._ It is…Mr. Brook, this marriage is neither legal, nor binding!" She gasped, willing the loophole into hopeful existence, and nearly weeping with the effort of it.

"But can you prove it, Mrs. Brook?" he interrupted her, shaking his head. "Molly, Molly. My word will _always_ win. Even if you had money enough to hire a solicitor… are you aware, my dear, of what one must do to prove it?" She shook her head silently, twisting her bloodied fingers in her lap. He snorted, curving his lips into a crooked smile. "Well! You must submit to a physical examination, of course. You do know what I mean? Yes, I thought so," he smirked as she shrank away. "And if that were not enough to dissuade you… do you know, my dear, that even those ridiculous pleas to your Father would do you not a drop of good? So flamboyant that letter was, little one; so very… _melodramatic._ Tut, tut! You really must indulge in the reading material I've presented you with- it would work a world of good on your writing."

"My Father will _always_ protect me," she whispered uncertainly, but the words were untrue, and faltered on her lips. For it was he, after all, that had landed her in this mess, in this farce of a marriage at the first!

He grinned manically back at her, clearly pleased with himself. Rubbing his hands together energetically, he leaned forward. "Oh, very good, very good! You are seeing reason: _now_ we are getting somewhere. Ah, Benjamin Hooper… he really isn't the very _best_ of men, you see. Not at all, not at all. Would you care to learn what he has done? No? Very well, then. Let us suffice to say that if you, Mrs. Brook _,_ disobey me, your Father will swing for it. Do you doubt me, Molly? _Do you think I lie?_ If you attempt to leave… if a _hair_ on my own head is harmed, the law will take his… _misdemeanors_ … into their own hands."

Searching his face, she saw nothing but rabid belief; utmost sincerity and exhilaration in the truth of his words. Her trembling hands moved to cover her mouth, to stifle the wail that tore at her throat, clawing desperately for relief. Leaning back, he placed his hands behind his head, speaking to the ceiling. "Power, you see, belongs to the keeper of secrets most vile. Now, pet: come here." He sat rigidly upright, and pointed with one finger to the floor at his feet. She stared at him, uncomprehending.

" _Do you disobey me?"_ he growled, and the menace in his voice was absolute. Molly pushed herself from the bed mechanically, her steps heavy and wooden as she made her slow way towards him. She stood, swaying slightly, and looked at him in a flicker of glances. He was the very picture of a gentleman, save for the evidence of brutality that dappled his fair hands. The sharp line of his chin was clean-shaven, and pale, the smell of him was musky and imperceptibly sweet. And yet she dared not look again into those dark, searing eyes. Smiling slightly, he rose, and took one step forward, closing the gap between them. His eyes narrowed as he drew her gaze towards him with one finger against her neck. He stared down upon her, and felt the smoothness of her skin, the flakes of blood dried into crimson powder.

"Kiss me." he said, in a voice smooth as silk.

Her eyes snapped into focus, alarm and fear mingling into an entirely different beast, whose hackles rose, whose lips pulled back into a wary snarl. Her feet slid away from under her, her body propelled backwards on the energy of pure revulsion. But he seized her face between his warm hands, and drew her up towards him. A shriek tore from her lips; high, shrill, incoherent- and was silenced with his kiss. His mouth against hers was hard and demanding: it was an assault, an invasion of her person. Twisting her neck, she pulled away, _away_ from the searing contact of flesh against flesh- but his grip was made fast, coiling once more deep into her hair. His tongue darted into her mouth like a snake; out and away, too quick, too shocking for her to seize it between her own teeth and _rip_ for all her life was worth.

He released her suddenly, and she tumbled backwards, catching herself shakily on the bedpost. Her stomach heaved, but there was nothing in it save for bile and the few drops of water she had drank in that day. Clutching at the post, her knuckles shone white in the dim room; her throat burned, his touch still lingered upon her skin. Bringing a hand to his hair, he smoothed it back carefully, watching with cat's eyes as she shook, nails digging deep into the wood. Madness came, and she screamed wordlessly at him; a weak, shuddering thing that spoke all that words could not. Again her throat constricted, her stomach wrung the last semblances of liquid from within, leaving spittle to illuminate the floorboards. The tears, warm and salt, stung sharply at her cheek, and she wrapped her arms about herself, rocking, rocking.

With a mieu of distaste, he patted delicately at his lips, pausing to examine the moisture on the tips of his fingers. A small smile flicked across his lips, quirking the corners upwards in a glimmer of pleasure.

"I should say that is enough consummation as I am in need of… for the present. Women," He said, and crossed to the door, "women have forgotten their purpose. They are meant, after all, for the keeping of a household. And, oh yes, what was that? What was that, that true and biological purpose, that true and loving thing which females are meant for? Ah, yes: _breeding."_ He thrust the words at her; an axe to fall, a fear to covet. He grinned as she slowly raised her head, grief despair and forcing this new dread into one small, controlled corner of her mind; that semblance of self whose walls groaned but were not yet breached. And with that inkling of presence, she delivered to him a look of undisguised venom, pure and honest loathing that would instill fear into any man.

But Mr. Brook was not any man. He took her glance, and basked in it, and it fueled his glee. "Oh, Mrs. Brook, what wicked thoughts are in your head! They are written so plainly on your face; you are not one so easily tamed! My, my. Well, I will tell you again, dear heart: if you _ever_ so much as touch me without my leave, you will pay for it- with your life, or his."

She felt the crusted blood on her cheek twitch and harden; the silence between them a vengeful malice that had yet to find its physical form. And yet, the hard steel of her hatred focused upon the man in front of her; her nightmare, her demon.

"Well!" he said, breaking the silence with a clap of his hands together. "That's settled then. We understand each other, I think; and the need for the penance you must undoubtedly play! Such trickery you played, Molly, such trickery. You will stay in this room for a month's time- yes, a month should do nicely. Ah, but see, I am not so _very_ cruel; perhaps a reward is in order? Hm. Behave well… and I shall see to it that you are let out of the house for one day a week- chaperoned, of course. I think this remarkably fair of me, don't you? Well, sleep well, my dear; it's been a trying day for both of us."

The door opened lightly under his fingers, and he disappeared behind it, into the darkness of the hall. "Oh, and Molly?" His head appeared one last time, a disembodied thing that floated in the impending dark. "You do understand, don't you? Your life is not your own: it is _mine_ , and I must insist that you keep your hands… _off_ … it."

The door clicked shut behind him, followed by the scrape of the key in the latch. His footsteps faded; his bedroom door opened, and closed. And still Molly stood, a vision of pale white and crimson in the fading light. The shadows, like slinking beasts, departed from their domain in the corners and walls. They crept over the floorboards on slow hands and slow feet, and entered her, blissfully, like a maggot into a rose; creatures of unending emptiness that seized her soul and laid waste to it with loving, tender caresses. Oblivion came to her on the roar of a cresting wave; despair and bleakness so powerful that her limbs seemed turned to useless dust. She collapsed, there on the floor, and held herself near; the warmth of her dark eyes wide, and unseeing.

 **A/N: *ducks* Ok guys, I'm really, really sorry about that. BUT, the next chapter will be more cheerful. Promise! Please don't give up on Molly, she's a fighter!**


	16. The Goose and the Gander

**A/N: A few notes: first of all, this fic has been nominated for best AU in the 2017 SAMFA's! (Otherwise known as the Sherlolly fic writing awards.) I am beyond thrilled, and grateful, at the reception this story has been getting, and I can't tell you what a nice surprise it was to be nominated! So if you've enjoyed this, go to sherlollyDOTtumblrDOTcom, and scroll down a couple posts to the link to vote. Voting ends on Nov. 6!**

 **As for the chapter- many references to The Blue Carbuncle in this one. I have to say, I'm quite fond of this chapter so, without further ado, and many thanks to likingthistoomuch for being my sounding board as always, read on! xx :)**

 **XVI. The Goose and the Gander**

The afternoon light glanced down like a slice of gold through the billowing clouds, scattering through the streets of London in dispersed glints and flashes. People skittered this way and that, pausing to hail a passing cab, to inspect a broken lace torn free from a shoe, or to simply stop and chew the fat with a fellow. In short, it was that time of day, after the small meal has been taken, when people seem most relaxed in their digestion and less aware of their surroundings. That is to say, it was the opportune moment for a scalawag such as our little mongrel Archie to pinch a rogue penny from an unattended purse, or to lend a helpful ear to those whose tongues perpetually wag.

On this particular day, our boy had within his possession a commodity which he knew might spark the imagination of his sometimes-master: _a curious story_ , which he himself had witnessed first-hand. And with this choicest of morsels tucked neatly away in his sharp little brain, he scampered through the alleyways and streets, quick as an imp. Down the lane he ran, and spied his target. One step, then two; jump, skip, hop- and the tall black door was before him: 221B, Baker St.

Jumping up, he gave the knocker a good whack before falling back, waiting with impatient, puffing breaths. After a moment the sound of heeled shoes could be heard, and the door swung open, revealing an older woman, dressed smartly in deep purple. She looked about herself as Archie ducked away, smirking as he made himself smaller still. With a huff of indignation, she turned to close the door. "Can I come up, Marm?" The boy asked, shooting up suddenly. She gasped, her hand flying to her breast in surprise.

"Oh, good heavens, Archie, you gave me a fright! You naughty thing!" She exclaimed, cuffing him upside the head as he slipped past her like a little fish. He clambered up the stairs quickly, and was already up one flight before his head poked down over the banister. "Have you got any biscuits, Mrs. H?"

"For shame! Learn your manners, young man!" She chided him, shutting the heavy door behind her. "And yes, it so happens that I have; but you ought to wait till tea-time. I expect once you've done with Mr. Holmes it will be alright."

"Thanks, Marm!" He shouted back over the thunder of his vaulting steps. "Mr. Holmes! Mr. Holmes!" And without so much as a knock, he barged into the flat, flinging the door wide. Trails of smoke, their tendrils twisting and slender, caught at him like some intent octopus, drawing him forward and into the room. He coughed violently, flinging an arm over his mouth; for the room was filled so thickly with smoke that he could scarcely make out where the furniture ended and empty space began. It stung at his eyes so that they began to tear. But the boy was nothing if not staunch, and he waded his determined way towards the tall, spectral figure who seemed to waver in the room, so enveloped was he by the thick gray air that he seemed a demon dispossessed from hell.

"Mr. Holmes!" Archie shouted again, but the name was lost in a fit of coughing.

"Hm? Who's there? Ah, it's you, young fellow- what do you want? I am busy." Spoke Holmes in a deep, muffled voice. From his mouth protruded not one, but three pipes of varying length. Each gleamed a deep red at the bowl, and as he removed them carefully from his mouth, he was a veritable dragon; smoke escaping from his mouth, his nose- one might even suppose his very ears were in danger of letting out the dreadful stuff.

"What're you doing, Mr. Holmes? Can I have a go?" Exclaimed the boy.

"No."

"Why not?"

Holmes glanced about, and quickly laid hands upon a clean sheet of newspaper, upon which he upturned the first pipe. There, the smoldering remains of tobacco glowed faintly in a neat little heap.

"Because," replied Holmes, carefully repeating the same treatment with the remaining two pipes, "I am working. Tobacco ash, you see, is a distressingly under-studied subject, and I am currently endeavoring to remedy the situation. Now. Why are you here?"

"Saw a woman, Mr. Holmes! Said she was lookin' for you- only, they took 'er away, for stealin' a newspaper. Rotten luck, that," Archie added as an afterthought.

Sherlock Holmes snorted, and a great deal of leftover smoke billowed from his nostrils. He coughed heavily, and slapped a palm to his chest. "Never mind that- what interest is it to me?"

"Well she was lookin' for you, weren't she?"

" _Wasn't_ , boy, _wasn't._ If you presume to barge into my apartments with such a silly story, at least have the decency to maintain grammatical accuracy."

"Well she _was_ lookin' for you, and she made a heap of a fuss about it!"

"Is that so?" Queried Holmes, steadfastly packing the pipes with fresh tobacco. "And how, pray tell, did the lady in question appear? Was she, in fact, a Lady? Or perhaps a street hawker, a street _walker_? An old crone? Blonde, brown, ginger? Come, boy, detail is imperative."

Archie scrunched his eyes shut in remembrance, removing his dirty cap and rubbing his spare hand through his even dirtier curls. "She…er, she had… brown hair, sir…"

Holmes stopped abruptly, and replaced the pipe carefully upon the table. Turning to face him squarely, one brow raised in astonishment, he replied, "Do you mean to tell me that you've found a _brown-haired woman_ in the depths of London who has need of me? Heavens, I know the very one!"

"D'you really, Mr. Holmes?" Asked Archie hopefully.

"No. Now do us all a favor, boy, and close the door on the way out. The draft is muddling my smoke patterns."

"But sir, she was desperate, sir- mental, like! When the paper man would not let her look for your address, she was furious, sir! Like a wild thing!"

"And why in God's name would she be looking for my address in the paper? I do not advertise; no, she is clearly a ninny- and perhaps a mad one to boot, if she attacked the vendor so."

"But Mr. Holmes!" Piped the lad vehemently, determined to have his story come to some good use, "she was _arrested_! Oughtn't we to at least do something about it?"

"No, _we_ have not got to do a thing," replied Holmes, his voice low and close to a growl, "because it is a _waste of time_. You've brought me nothing of interest. Did you, perhaps, get her name, hm? Perhaps a calling card? No- no, boy, she was arrested for _stealing a newspaper-_ and though this articulates her obvious distress, it is no business of mine. Now: be off with you!"

The boy stood, sullen and reprimanded, twisting his cap between his hands. He perked suddenly, as a thought dropped into his head like a pin into clear water. "Could I have a penny, sir?"

"What?" Muttered Holmes distractedly, striking a match to a packed pipe.

"A penny, sir- haven't eaten all day!"

" _That_ is a lie- but it seems I will not be rid of you! There, now! Ask Mrs. Hudson for a biscuit, you're clearly after one!" And with that he pulled three pennies from the pocket of his dressing gown, throwing them irritably at the delighted lad. Archie scrambled about the room, plucking them from the mess of newspapers and teacups and various weaponry. It was at this moment that Dr. Watson chose to enter the fray, opening the door and nearly tripping headlong over the boy as he reached for a final penny tucking itself under the ottoman.

"What the devil- Archie, good heavens is that you? I nearly lost an eye, young man, away with you!" Spluttered Watson, as the boy righted himself, clutching to the mantlepiece and coming face to face with an old skull, its empty sockets gazing balefully through him.

"Is that a _human skull_ , Mr. Holmes? Can I 'ave a look?"

"No! Out, boy- _out!"_

Archie scuttled out victoriously, his three pennies, and a fourth found under the rug, jangling pleasantly in his pocket. As the door closed, Watson wrinkled his nose in disgust, waving at the thick air before him in an effort to clear it from smoke. "I say, Holmes, I enjoy a pipe same as you from time to time, but are you determined to smoke us out? And what was that all about, anyway?" He asked, nodding in Archie's departed direction.

"Hm? Oh, some nonsense or other- a woman, looking for my address; got herself arrested for stealing a newspaper, apparently."

"My dear fellow! That seems overdone in the extreme!"

"It is, Watson; I agree. But as there is no _case_ in the matter, it is uninteresting. She will find us, or she will not. But never mind, it hardly matters; I've seven more tobaccos to be smoked. And you, my friend, are just the ticket: you will be supplying me with the twelve cigarette brands I've yet to test. The list is just there." Not once did Holmes look up from his chore, and soon the three pipes had found their way to his lips, and began again to produce all manner of nose-curdling smoke.

"I will not, Holmes- it just so happens I have a matter to attend to, and will not be back for supper." Rejoined Watson with a grin. At this, Holmes glanced up, narrowing his eyes through the fogged room.

"Ah. You are off to see the Suffragette, I perceive."

"Indeed I am. How did you…? No; no, I will not ask. I'm off, then; I will see you tomorrow."

"Shall I tell you?" Asked Holmes, and the pipes disappeared, his visage brightening with a flash of teeth.

"I beg you, please don't."

"Why, you've a posy in your buttonhole, Watson; hardly an invigorating deduction. What was the young lady's name? Edwina, if I recall correctly?"

"Margot. Sherlock, you are an idiot for one so learned. _Margot._ And for God's sake, open a window!" And with that, Watson departed, leaving the dragon to his lair.

The dragon considered his pipes, selected the one packed most full and, breathing out a sigh of fire, began again to smoke.

 **~0~0~**

A knock sounded at the door, hesitant and unsure. Molly lay in the half-dark of morning, curled on her side under the thick comforter, staring at the swirling wood of the wardrobe with disinterest. The knock sounded again, stronger.

"Mistress?" Came Julie's muted voice, then the rattling of the knob as the door swung slowly open. "I've brought breakfast, see? Tea and toast; and even some rashers of bacon, should you like it." She bustled in, setting the tray of food on the side table before hovering at Molly's side, hands planted on her hips. Molly said not a word, but continued to stare unblinkingly, her mouth set in a firm, downward line.

The month of confinement had not been kind. Her face had grown sallow and drawn, her bright eyes dull. The blow to her cheek had only begun to heal, leaving a shining, ripe scar in its place; a throbbing, bitter red. It drew the eye, and made Julie cringe to look at it. And though one day it might fade, it could never be erased entirely: for there, upon her face, she would carry the reminder of that day, forever and always.

"Come, Mistress, you ought to eat!" Exclaimed the maid finally, pulling over the chair to sit by the bedside. Still Molly did not move, and with a sigh, Julie tugged at the pillow beneath her head, until it fell away, and she was forced to look at her. "Sit up, that's a dear," Julie said in a motherly tone. "Eat now, or the tea will have gone cold!"

"I don't have an appetite." Her patient replied sourly, and shifted to face in the opposite direction.

"Suit yourself," Julie replied, and, sitting back, helped herself to the bacon. It was perfectly delicious, and she licked at the grease that ran down her fingers before wiping them on her apron. "Only, you might need your strength, since Soames is to take you out today,"

After a moment, Molly turned, the words hanging like the promise of a sweet in the air. She looked at Julie skeptically, her lips twisting into a grimace, tugging painfully at the scar. "I find that rather hard to believe."

"It's the truth, Mistress! Mr. Brook told it to me special, to make sure you were well enough to go out today, if only for a few hours."

Slowly she sat up, doubt written plainly across her features. Pausing to stare at the tray, her hand shakily made its way to the hot cup of tea that lay daintily steaming in its saucer. As she raised it, the shadows found the bones of her wrist, standing out strongly against the weak flesh. She was not quite emaciated; and yet, she had become a pale, trembling creature, her dark eyes set round and overlarge in her face. Inhaling deeply, she savored the rich smell of the dark liquid, letting it tickle her nose, then slowly brought it to her lips. The taste was overwhelming, after so many days spent without much but a little water. It was enough. She replaced the cup in the saucer, closing her eyes. "There, I've had some tea; will you go away now?" She sighed, sinking back into the pillow.

"I'm afraid not, Mistress; I'm to see you dressed, and take you downstairs."

Molly opened one eye, staring at Julie dubiously. "You are quite serious?"

"Quite! Like I said, Soames is downstairs, ready to escort you to the park." She smiled broadly, and patted Molly's hand. "You'll see- you'll be right as rain in no time."

It was clear that this was by no means Soames' greatest wish, for his demeanor was grudging and ill-tempered as she slowly descended. But he held the door open for her all the same, and she stepped over the threshold, into the brisk air of early winter. Hesitantly she took the steps one at a time, clutching to the railing. Her cheek ached abominably, even in the mere minute it had been exposed to the weather. The street bustled; horses trotted by, and the citizens of London found their dogged way from place to place. She took it all in, in deep, bewildering breaths; into her mind, into her lungs, into her heart. _Life_ found her, once again, in a heady rush of sound, and noise; a caterwaul after the silence of her room.

And it was too much. Energy, brimming and over-full, teemed in every direction, flowing over and through her like great waves crashing against the surf. Her knuckles grew white against the railing, and she found her body stiffening in an alarm that left her panicked and impotent. Soames cleared his throat behind her; an impatient noise, sandpaper over stone.

"Back," she whispered; then louder, "Back, take me _back_ , I- no, no, it is too much! Too much…" And turning suddenly, she pushed past the surprised valet brusquely, fleeing up the stairs, back into the comfortable known of her cloistered cell.

 **~0~0~**

"Do you mean to tell me that this outrageous gem was found within a _goose?"_

"Yes, Mr. Holmes- in a goose! The very same that I bought, not three days past."

"Well, this is most curious, my good fellow- Mr. Peterson, did you say? Most curious indeed. What do you make of it, Watson?"

"Well, it seems plain to me that- "

"Are you hungry, Watson?"

"Hungry? No, not particularly- why do you ask?"

"Mr. Peterson, from where did you buy this goose?"

"Why, from the market, Mr. Holmes!"

"Which vendor?"

"Breckinridge, I believe, is his name."

"Mr. Peterson, see yourself out- leave that gem here, we will see to it. Well then, Watson, I believe we should make a night of it. What do you say to a pint and, if we are so lucky, a wild goose chase?"

 **~0~0~**

It was another month before Molly's battered courage showed signs of careful life. And though she had begun to take food again, and to walk about the apartments on her own whims, she had not yet made good in her endeavor to pass the fence that was ever her boundary. It seemed a menacing thing; a line in the sand, a barrier to cross. That old, neglected fence, with its peeling paint and dismal tilt, had become the embodiment of her ailments, both true and imagined.

The company of Mr. Brook, at least, had not troubled her, for she had not spoken with him in all the months that had passed since that day. Only the opening and closing of his door in the wee hours of the morning were a testament to his presence. The sound of his heeled shoes against the floorboards; the squeak of the un-oiled hinges still filled her with an unconscionable dread each night as she lay awake, fearing the sound would creep next into her very own room. And yet, Christmas was coming, and with it that unquenchable good cheer of the season that seems to fall from the very heavens in the presence of snow. It was then, she reasoned, only right that she sally forth; the specter of Brook be damned.

And so it was that on Christmas Eve, when Julie shyly asked if she might accompany her to choose a goose to bring home to her family, Molly was obliged- and determined- to accept. Clutching at Julie's arm like a child clings to its mother, Molly followed her slowly, with careful, teetering steps, her eyes large and darting from busy shape to shape. She did not know why the outside should have such an effect on her, when all her hurts were born of the indoors. It made no sense- and yet there, at least, in her own little domain, she knew the enemy: whereas out, in the open, every soul was a potential demon. Was it fear that bound her, she wondered- and thus the bindings of fear she must break? She did not know.

She clung to Julie with a firm hand as they made their way through the winding streets, towards the festive market where all manner of sweets and decoration could still be had. Here were sprigs of holly, made fast into wreaths; and there the suet that formed the base of the plum pudding. But they stopped first amid the stalls where the vendors watched with hawk eyes, as laughing folk wandered through large sacks and basins brimming with every sort of grain and dried pea that a mind could think of.

Molly waited as Julie made her bargains with the merchant, slipping her hand into the sack of split peas. The feel of it was some strange comfort; some new texture that massaged her bony fingers and made them aware. She closed her eyes, and smiled.

"Mistress, I've finished- let's continue?" Julie's bright voice interrupted her musings. "Yes," she replied, and they walked on. Deliberately, she slid her gloved hands into her pockets, the corners of her lips lifted upwards as she rolled the few stolen peas between her fingers.

It was as they finally made their way to the stalls where the birds were kept, their odor strong in the close avenue, that she stopped dead in her tracks, reaching again for Julie's support. "What is it? Mistress? What is wrong?" Concern peppered Julie's words, but she heard them not at all. For there, speaking with the vendor, was a tall man, his tousled curls black, his profile long and Byronic.

"Fine birds, _excellent_ birds," remarked the man enthusiastically, clapping his hands together. "Where did you get them?"

"Now, then, Mister!" Came the vendor's abruptly angry reply, "What the devil are you driving at?"

The two erupted into a frenzy of speech and gesticulation, but Molly had had enough.

"Mad.. I am _mad..._ Julie, take me home. At once. I will not... I _cannot…_ It is entirely too much! No…" She backed away, slowly at first; his form, his gestures, so like him… and yet it could not be. His companion turned, and caught her own frank stare with his quizzical gaze. Her lips parted in surprise; his head cocked to the side, eyes narrowed. And with that she turned tail and bolted back the way she had came, her heart pounding a wild tattoo in her chest. For it was not the first time she had imagined up _him_ into reality, and she _would not have it._ Her soul, her _sanity_ \- they were her only weapons, and she would covet and guard them jealously. With a confused glance at the two men, Julie shot them one fierce look, and together they disappeared into the cheerful holiday crowd.

 **~0~0~**

"Watson here- " and Holmes flapped his hand at the distracted man- "was just informing me that these birds are town bred. Well! I've put a fiver on it, for they're country bred, through and through!"

"You've lost your money, then" replied the merchant, Mr. Breckinridge, "for they're town bred."

"They are most certainly not!"

"Take it 'er leave it, Mister! They're town bred, and I 'ave the ledger here wot proves it."

Watson stared at the woman. The woman stared back at him. Her eyes were wide, and dark, and afraid. They flickered to Holmes, and back again.

"Holmes- look, do you see her? Just there?"

"Not _now_ , Watson, he's just fetching the ledger- the thief's name will be there, I'm sure of it- "

" _Sherlock_ , do you see that woman? Look, look now- there!" And he spun his friend round, jerking him by the sleeve of his greatcoat. Together they scanned the crowd, but where before she had stood, there was now a group of young girls tittering over something or other, their perfect curls bouncing merrily in time with their exchange.

"I see nothing- what is this? What woman?"

"She was just there! Staring, Holmes, as if she knew you- and was frightened."

"Well, whoever she is, she is gone now. What did she look like?"

"Pale…brown hair, brown eyes… thin, and with another woman; a maid, I think."

"Well never mind that, there's nothing to be done. She might not have been looking at us."

"She wasn't looking at us, she was looking at _you."_

Holmes frowned, and his brows drew together thoughtfully. The slimmest shards of possibility wavered in his mind, making their slow, tortuous way towards each other. The vaguest notions, the quivering opening of fortuity began to ripen…could it…?

"There now, you see!" Exclaimed the vendor as he returned, clutching the thick ledger in his hand and throwing it open upon the counter. "Town bred, just as I told you!"

Holmes looked down at the rows of names, each lettered in an increasingly wobbly hand. And _there_ was his man's name, plain as day. He noted the letter _T_ scrawled next to it, and shook his head in mock regret, though excitement burbled through him like an unwatched kettle, the woman all but forgotten. "A shame indeed," he murmured, while Breckinridge grinned back at him, victorious in his efforts.

Watson coughed, and rubbed at his moustache. "You did say a fiver, eh old boy?" His eyes twinkled mischievously, and Sherlock could not help but allow his own lips to twitch upward into a grin.

"Indeed, John. Indeed."

 **~0~0~**

When they returned to the flat, it was to find a man waiting for them, made comfortable in one of the armchairs drawn up to the waning fire. He was a large man, for want of a less telling word; a man who overflowed himself, whose very girth seized the winged chair upon which he sat and made it small. His eyes were made little by the pouching fat of his face, though they were also dark, and very shrewd; his nose long, and aquiline. In his right hand he clutched a biscuit, and in his left a cup of tea so over-sugared that its contents were viscous, and syrupy. Crumbs littered the front of his waistcoat, and upon seeing the pair, his long, flaccid lips stretched into a tight smile.

"Oh," he said, settling the cup and biscuit back into its saucer, "Sherlock. I've been expecting you. Dr. Watson," he welcomed offhandedly. Watson nodded curtly, while Holmes released a small noise of disgust. Stepping back out onto the landing, he bellowed,

"Mrs. Hudson! Moby Dick has beached himself in my sitting room; is it intentional?"

"It _is_ intentional!" Came the shrill response from below. "And Sherlock Holmes, behave yourself! Family is family- _especially_ at the holidays- no matter how irritating!"

He snorted, while the man's smile pulled immediately downward. "Well then. Nice to know when one's wanted."

"What are you doing here, Mycroft?" Asked Sherlock, prizing the gloves from his hands and swinging his coat onto the stand. "I would like to presume that we are in no way going about Good Christmas Cheer and all that romantic drivel, are we?" Crossing the room, he made his way to the dwindling fire, and threw a few logs on.

"I see you've found the infamous Blue Carbuncle," replied Mycroft by way of an answer, holding up a sparkling blue gem of immense proportions up to the firelight.

"It found its way to us in the gullet of a goose," replied Sherlock, and took up the dusty decanter from its dark corner of the room."Whiskey, John?"

"Don't mind if I do," John agreed, removing his hat to the hat-rack.

"I don't think I've ever endured the pleasure of your visit, Mycroft- what brings you here? Certainly not the Carbuncle, of all things? Lady Morcar will have it back in her chest soon enough." Said Sherlock irritably, handing the glass to John as he reclined upon the sofa.

"Oh! No, no I should think not," murmured Mycroft to himself. "No; but seeing as it _is_ Christmas, I thought I might persuade you to join me in more… _pressing_ matters."

"Oh?"

"Don't be an _imbecile_ , brother-mine; I know you are perfectly aware of the murders… of these _women."_

"Of course I am aware," sneered he, settling himself into the chair opposite. "But what has it to do with me?"

"Don't be a child, Sherlock!" Exclaimed Mycroft, his chins quivering in agitation.

"What's different?" Sherlock demanded, sitting forward in his chair. "Why call on me, now? What has changed?"

"People have _died!"_

"Yes; that is, generally speaking, what people do."

Mycroft sat back in his chair, his large arms drooping over the rests. He did not glance up, but looked very much like a man who has been forced into the irritating position of begging his younger brother for a large favor. "The wife of the American ambassador." He grudgingly said at last, glaring into the fire. "She was found this morning, same as all the others: asphyxiated, tongue…missing."

"Missing? What do you mean _missing?_ How can a tongue go _missing?"_

"Was it cut out?" Inquired John from the sofa, where he had been following the conversation with great interest.

"Well done, Dr. Watson," agreed Mycroft. "Yes; it had been cut out, as I said- like all the others, and has yet to be found."

"Oh, very good; very good indeed," griped Sherlock, springing to his feet and refilling his glass. "Scotland Yard is _inept._ Confusticated. In collective possession of the most alarmingly dormant organs ever to be kept under a head of hair."

"Then why on Earth haven't you taken up the case? Surely you of all people- "

"And surely _you_ , Mycroft, with the entire Royal service at your beck and call, have the capacity to have it in hand!"

Mycroft sighed, picking at his biscuit. "You know how I detest _legwork._ " He glared daggers at his brother then, and brought a crumb to his mouth. "This is bad business, Sherlock; a very bad business. The Ambassador's wife... Mrs. Maclane, was a great advocate for social change... oh, don't look at me like that. Surely you are aware of the movements in play under our feet? Votes for Women, Temperance, Save the _Orphans_... terrible for our relations with the Americans, you know. And to be killed, in such a dreadful manner!"

"And you'd like me to fix it for you, would you?" Sherlock interrupted irritably, downing the last of his whiskey and soda.

"Regrettably, yes. Find this... _madman,_ will you? As a Christmas gift."

"With the aid of Scotland Yard."

"Naturally."

"And, I presume, Gregson is leading the case."

"Yes."

"Then you know my answer."

"Brother dear," said Mycroft, leaning forward with a flinty gaze, "it would do you well to _grow up."_

"He won't work with me, you know that as well as I!" Sherlock exclaimed, and settled again into his chair, toeing off his shoes.

"And whose fault is that?"

Sherlock smiled a wolffish grin, and folded his hands over his stomach. "Oh, certainly not mine."

"Indeed." Replied Mycroft flatly.

"It's hardly my fault he's got himself into a quandary with one of the choicest prostitutes in London. I merely did him the courtesy of informing his spouse that she ought to forego her wifely duties for the time being."

Mycroft groaned; a great, irritable heaving thing that rattled his lungs, forcing him into a walloping cough, his eyes squeezing shut.

"Oh, spare me," muttered Sherlock beneath his breath. "I suppose it is the _giving season,_ is it not? Get me Lestrade, and I will consider it."

"Thank you," replied Mycroft quickly, and hauled himself from his seat. "Compliments of the season, Dr. Watson."

"Compliments of the season," John rejoined, and with many grumblings and laborious footsteps, Mycroft at last was gone.

"Now then," began Sherlock, once the door below had been shut, "what do you make of that Blue Carbuncle, eh? Ought we to allow Lady Morcar to sweat for a bit longer?"

 **~0~0~**

The New Year came, and went, and little changed. The days flew by swiftly, and yet slowly; each following the next, like some hypnotic dream. Molly regained some of her lost flesh, but her skin remained sallow, white and pale as the snow that sometimes fell upon the eaves.

She could count the occasions that she had seen Mr. Brook on the fingers of one hand, and always in passing. He did not often pause to speak with her, but shot her the swiftest little smirks, the most charming of smiles, and she shuddered away from him every time. But it had been a full week since she had last clapped eyes on him, and it eased her mind somewhat.

In the days that followed the encounter with her conjured man, she had come to grips with her madness, and embraced it. There were worse things, after all, than seeing that phantom of her making, that _Sherlock Holmes_. It could be worse. He at least was a kind soul, or so she believed, and would do her no harm in whatever form her mind chose to give him. And so she had found the will to look forward to her days of semi-freedom; her hours in the damp climate of London, in the bristling energy of folk she did not know.

On one such morning, in the late days of January, when the walking was slick with dark ice and the wind cold and biting, Molly wrapped herself deep into the confines of her warmest cloak. Tucking her hair into a bonnet and her hands into a muffler, she trotted down the stairs, eager to welcome the cold air deep into her lungs.

"Julie," she called, throwing the kitchen door open, "I am ready! Isn't the weather a fright today? Oh!" For there Julie sat, huddled into a rickety chair near the hearth. The darkness beneath her eyes was deep; her hair lank, her face pallid and clammy. "Oh! You look a fright, Julie! You are ill!"

"No," croaked Julie, her voice hoarse.

"Tosh! You are ill, do not deny it!" Placing her own pale hand upon Julie's forehead, she found it hot with fever. "You cannot go out today! No, I'll have none of it- you are burning up, my dear! To bed with you!"

"But- Mistress- the larder is _empty_ , it's market day- "

"Then I will visit the market. You've a list, haven't you?" But as she said the words, her heart filled with unease. It had been a very long while since she had ventured out alone, and not once had she navigated the streets of the city by herself. "I will be fine," she said aloud, as much to herself as to Julie- then hesitated. "Soames...?" She asked, the valet's name question enough.

"He... well, he's having a bit of a _lie-down_ , as it were... if you take my meaning, Mistress," And indeed, her words were plain, for it was seldom Molly found the man without his hip-flask close at hand.

"Julie, you cannot go out." Molly said plainly. "And if you will not tell Mr. Brook, then neither shall I! I... I will be back." She smiled sadly. "You have my word."

 **~0~0~**

Sherlock Holmes was a late riser, as a rule. John Watson, on the other hand, was often departed from his bed-sheets by the early hours, before the barest blossoms of dawn shimmered over the city. He stood at this particular moment in front of the dingy mirror in his room, the curtains flung wide to let what little winter light the clouds deigned to allow through pierce his windows. Taking up his shaving knife, he had only just begun to drag the blade across his foamy cheeks when the first thunderous steps began to work their way up to the flat. He paused, cocking his ears, his brow furrowed. The door burst open suddenly, the deep panting breaths of a man reaching his ears.

"Holmes!" Cried a voice excitedly. " _Holmes!"_

"What the devil…" John muttered, taking up a damp cloth and hurrying from the room. There, bent double with his hands upon his knees, stood Inspector Lestrade. His hat was caught up in one hand, and the sweat stood clear upon his forehead.

"Lestrade! Has something happened? It's not yet half six!"

"There's been another one," wheezed Lestrade, wincing as he forced himself upright.

"Another one... another _murder?_ One of those poor women? What has happened to Gregson?" John exclaimed, the shaving foam slipping slowly from his face onto the floor.

"Sacked!" Came Holmes's voice as he barreled into the room, fully dressed and hurrying to the coat stand. "Good of you to come, Lestrade- we've only been waiting a month," he said peevishly. "Watson, quickly now, your hat and coat."

"I'm scarcely half shaved!" John spluttered, and began to wipe at the foam with the cloth.

"Scarcely noticeable; I hardly ever look at you, surely no one else does. Come _on,_ John- the game is afoot!"

"About bloody time," muttered John and, seizing his hat, rammed it upon his head.

 **~0~0~**

The basket was heavy on her arm, filled over the brim with a precarious mixture of vegetables and meat, a sweet cake she had purchased for herself as a treat perched on top of it all. But the ache of her muscles was a good sort; the type of pain that spoke to her of small triumphs and later enjoyment. A joint of mutton lay tucked neatly away at the bottom, and her nose found the phantom juices that a pie would draw forth from it in delicious, savory mouthfuls.

In short, her few hours spent alone, and yet not alone, had been a revelation; a loosening of the bonds, a throwing down of the gauntlet against the fear that held her prisoner. She looked about her, and smiled. The frigid air was infectious, and bit at her skin so that her nose ran, and her lips chapped. But it was one of those moments of pure joy, when life again seemed livable, unquenchable in its possibility. And what of Mr. Brook, and her interminable position? _Well_ , she thought, and the wind blew fierce and brilliant at her back. _The east wind comes, and change will follow._

She looked again about her before stepping off the pavement, finding a path clear of horses, of men and cabbies. Across the bustling street was a tea shop, it's sign an enticing lure. Thither she made her determined way, the smile threatening to burst through the numbness of her lips. For that sweet, hot, cup, tucked between her hands! For the dark liquid that would fill her mouth, and run down her throat with reveling warmth! The basket slipped from her shoulder, and she paused to hitch it up, her muscles groaning from the effort.

" _Miss Hooper!"_

She looked about her in surprise, for the voice that called her name seemed so familiar and yet- it was as if the air exploded around her. A horse screamed, and she looked up not a moment too soon- for out of nowhere galloped the wild beast, its blinds untethered, its severed traces dangling from its back like some strange growth. Back she darted with a scream of her own as its hooves descended with a crash not an inch from where she had been standing. The basket dropped heavily to the ground, and out rolled the cabbages, the potatoes, the leeks and carrots and onions; the cake and mutton lying feebly in the street. All joy evaporated in a puff of smoke, as instinctual terror plowed through her in a cold, trembling sweat. As if drawn to her, the beast shook its head wildly, its one eye crazed and turning upon her as it shrieked again, turning; round and towards her it flew in an anguished madness. She could not move, as it raced towards her, the yells of the men and women in the street a roar of shock and horror as they moved too slowly, _too slowly-!_ She closed her eyes: it was all she could do, in that moment, _Dear God, help me!_

She fell. Hard, upon the cobbled stones, upon the edge of the pavement, and the crush of the people and animals and wind was in her ears- but there was also a solid, warm presence that lay against her, breathing hard. With a jerk she found herself lifted to her feet, an arm about her waist, a hand upon her shoulder.

"Fancy meeting you here!" Exclaimed the voice, and looking up, she saw a man, his dark curls wild, his eyes wide and piercing as an arctic wind. He patted at her haphazardly, concernedly, straightening her bonnet, then inspecting his own great-coat, where a tear had formed round the hem. "Blast," he muttered, "I'll have to find another." She looked into his long, sharp face, and knew him.

"Sherlock," she breathed, and he looked at her then, as if for the first time. In that instant, he took her in, his eyes reading her own; reading her weariness, her joy, her pain. They lingered upon the ugly scar, and his face darkened. She blushed hotly, and looked away; shame stabbing into her like a knife. If it were not for the din that erupted in a volley of curses from the men that tamed the escaped horse, that moment would have lasted an eternity. But he, as if recalling himself, seized her by the elbow, and began to pull her along, uttering not a word of what he had seen. "Come along, Miss Hooper!" He said, as if nothing at all of interest had happened, as if time nor words had never been spent between them.

"My- my basket!" She exclaimed suddenly, and gasped; for shock has a strange way of making the silliest of things rife with importance. "Oh- oh, the shopping- ah! See, the cabbages- I must- "

"Damn the cabbages!" He shouted gleefully, and pulled her along afresh. "Nothing to be done for them- there, see, the horses will have a veritable feast. Molly, you are a most excellent surprise- I beg you, come with me!"

"Where- where are we going?" She asked, and jogged along beside him, breathless and bewildered as the door to a cab was flung open by a frowning man with a bright, blue-eyed stare.

" _Sherlock!"_ He shouted. "Are you alright? You could have been killed! What on Earth- who is the lady?"

"Watson, Lestrade- budge up, would you, there's a good fellow- " and together Sherlock and Molly tumbled into the cab, and he thumped at the roof with his fist, slamming the door with his other hand. "May I introduce to you all," he said in a great gasp of breath, "Miss Molly Hooper."

Through the window she saw the streets sweeping by, the paupers and beggars descending upon the cabbages and onions that lay trampled in the road, the cake turned to small dust. And the joy that she felt swelled from her heart up to the heavens and fell, like an embrace, over the roaring, teeming cesspool of all that was brilliantly London.


	17. The Exterminating Angel

**A/N: Somehow, this chapter happened! I'm not sure how it got so long, but there it is. Many thanks to likingthistoomuch for helping me out, and to all you lovely reviewers! If you enjoy this fic, and think it deserves Best AU, vote for me in the SAMFA's! Voting closes on Nov. 20. Take a moment to take a look! (and PM me if you're having trouble finding it.)**

 **Not sure when I'll be able to post another chapter- there will be traveling and family and concerts aplenty, soooo... yeah. fingers crossed. Anyway, hope you enjoy this chapter! :)**

 **XVII. The Exterminating Angel**

Molly shook in the padded seat, the adrenaline skittering through her veins like stones on ice and leaving her trembling, quaking. The trap bounced along merrily, and outside people shouted, and people spoke, and people listened; but not a soul heard. Her teeth chattered in her head, a dull snapping clack that broke the uneasy silence in fits and bursts.

Mere minutes had passed since he had swept her up, up in his arms, and whisked her to safety with all the dash of a chivalrous knight-in-arms. But this man was no gallant hero. He was simply a man, with shrewd eyes and a long, keen face; a man who knew her, and had found her. She glanced at him, and her shaking hand slipped under the comfort of his. She looked away, and felt his warmth; his solid presence there, beside her.

Time moved with the glacial pace of a muddled old woman, bent and confused. The men stared at her unabashedly, and though she knew they were friends, she could not look up at them. The scar on her cheek, dull and ugly and red, throbbed viciously. She felt their eyes upon it, and knew their thoughts, knew their pity; and she ducked her head. Finding Mr. Holmes's thumb atop her own, she took hold of it, and squeezed gently, then brought her hand back to herself. He glanced at her, his eyes wide and piercing, as if a series of electric shocks had run through him at this prolonged, and unexpected, contact. But she wrapped her arms about herself, and looked away, holding herself tightly, as if without this effort she might fall to a myriad of little pieces at their feet. The horse clattered and wheezed; the city swept by.

A throat was cleared, and the semi-silence crackled. She glanced up, and found Mr. Holmes turned away, and brooding, looking through the window. But the man opposite, who had called out to them, crinkled his eyes into a strained, but kind, smile. "How do you do, Miss Hooper," he said, leaning forward and extending his hand to her. "I am Dr. John Watson."

Hesitantly, she took a breath, clearing her mind of the sticky webs that clung to her thoughts. She gave him her hand, and smiled hesitantly. "Hello, Dr. Watson," and with the warm contact of his hand, given through the most basic decency of kindness, the tremors that racked her at last began to subside. She looked at him properly then, and found him to be a thoughtful sort, steadfast and able; a good man. On his upper lip there grew a mustache of immense proportions; an overfed caterpillar, curling upwards at the ends, giving him the impression of an irrepressible English gentleman. He dropped her hand delicately, and she glanced at Mr. Holmes, who had turned to watch carefully over his sharp nose.

"And I am Inspector Lestrade, of Scotland Yard," began Lestrade warmly, removing a glove to offer his own hand. Instantly she shrank back again into her seat, wary as a fox. Taken aback, Lestrade dropped his hand back into his lap as she stared intently at him, her teeth all but bared, her hackles raised.

"I apologize, Miss- though I cannot imagine how I offend!" He said in a reproachful voice. Silence fell again between them, awkward and icy. The cab leapt like a spring deer over the cobblestones; the horse snorted, the whip cracked.

"It appears, Miss Hooper, that you have had a run-in with the law before," Holmes said presently, his voice low and mild.

"Yes," she said, and her own voice was small, and echoed his. Then, "Gentlemen- Inspector Lestrade." She straightened, and looked him in the eye. Firmly, she packed her impulsive fear tightly away, and bade her racing blood be still- _be still_!- with a stern inward glance. She was a woman, and a wife, no matter the indignities suffered. Her chin raised, and her scar was born boldly for at least that moment; a dare to the men to look at her, and know. Mr. Holmes stared at her fiercely, his eyes raking her face, her visage, her past- and then turned, abruptly, to look again from the window.

"Inspector Lestrade," she said again, and she was calm; gracious. "I do apologize. It is true, I have known the confines of a prison's walls, however briefly. But it is not a tale which I wish to re-live, at present."

"I understand of course, Miss Hooper." Lestrade replied, and a relieved smile returned to his face.

" _Mrs_.- " she began to correct him, but Holmes, with an irritated wave of his hand, interrupted her. A trickle of warmth returned to her blood, and her own smile became true; for if she did not fully understand the reason for his insistence on addressing her as _Miss_ , perhaps her heart did.

"Enough of this." He said. "We have work to do."

"Work?" She asked, looking between the men. "What work? To where are we going? Oh!" And suddenly, it all flooded back; the duties, the restrictions, the ever-present _Mr. Brook._ "Mr. Holmes- I cannot stay! Or, at least, I cannot stay overlong- but I have forgotten: you have saved my life, and I haven't even had the decency to thank you!"

"It is no matter," he said gruffly and the faintest tinge of pink flushed the high bones of his cheek. Dr. Watson sat back, his arms folded across his chest. His mouth twitched beneath his moustache.

"But it is!" She exclaimed, and turned to face him. Instinctively, her hands again found his. He stared down at them, intertwined, as she gripped his fingers fiercely. "How can I ever thank you?" She said earnestly; and uncomfortably he looked away, prizing apart their fingers after bearing it for a moment.

"Hm," he said, and his voice went high. Lestrade smothered a laugh behind his fingers, which became a hacking cough. Holmes shot him a venomous glance, and both Lestrade and Watson became exceedingly interested in the houses that went past.

"Hm!" He said again, and cleared his throat. "I- that is to say, we- have, ah, are on our way to the scene of a murder."

"A murder!" She exclaimed, drawing back in horror.

"Yes," said Watson, interjecting as he drew himself up, "and might I add, Holmes, that the _scene of a crime_ is hardly the place to bring a lady!"

"Why not?" Rebuffed Holmes hotly. "If I recall, Miss Hooper, you had quite the interest in anatomy, and sciences, when last we met. Has it all flown from your brain, when you became a _wife_ , or will you come?"

The word _wife_ he spat at her; a word brimming with distaste and disappointment. But why was it? Had he an abhorrence of the office? Or was there, perhaps, some unacknowledged wish to have been included? She recoiled from his venom, and found herself puffing up like an adder in response. "What has being a _wife_ got to do with it? I am my own woman, Mr. Holmes, and it would do you well to remember it! But…" and she paused. For what would Mr. Brook do, if he knew? True, he had given her leave; a weekly sojourn into the city, with a chaperone in tow. And so she was not explicitly flaunting his rules… _Ah!_ Thought she, _But who is Mr. Brook, and who am I? He is my husband, and I is wife; but he is not my master, and though he may seek to control me through the fear of his fist, it is a paltry thing. He will surely not know- how could he, if he is never about, if no-one seeks to tell him? Though if he learns of my disobedience, so be it: I will deal with that consequence when it comes._ The warmth of an old life sparked in her again, and she looked up at Mr. Holmes, smiling widely.

"Yes, I will come with you. I cannot trust that my thoughts will be of any value to you, but I will try. If you will promise me that we shall not spend over-long, I would sharpen my wit on this case of yours!"

His face mirrored her own, and she saw his eyes flash in excitement. "Excellent. I saw in your letter that you had the right sort of head on your shoulders- the beginnings of good deductive reasoning. I am glad of your company, Miss Hooper."

Her brow furrowed at that, and she cocked her head. "My lett-"

"But we have arrived!" He exclaimed, as they had come to an abrupt stop outside a row of town-houses. They were not ramshackle, or filled with the hard-eyed people that have known hardship; but they were poorly, and not well kept. The air seemed unclean, and close; the laundry lines flapped with ominously strung aprons and drawers between the buildings. Molly eyed it all with trepidation, but Lestrade hopped first from his seat, and put a hand out to her. She took it firmly, and stepped determinedly down. Holmes made to move after her, but with a quick movement, Watson held him fast, and hissed in his ear. "Is this really the place to bring a _married woman_? Holmes, this is uncouth, imprudent- it is _not done!_ "

Holmes shrugged him off irritably. "What the devil do I care for prudence? Really, Watson, you ought to know better."

"But her _face!_ Surely you saw- "

"Of _course_ I saw, a blind man would see that mark. Watson, in truth, I barely know Miss Hooper- and yet, I take an interest in her; in this serendipitous reunion. Nobody deserves such treatment, but I say it with authority: _she_ does not."

"Neither does any soul," remarked the good doctor. "But yet, it is a remarkable coincidence. Tell me, will you be her white knight?"

Holmes sniffed impatiently. "I am not a _hero_ , Watson- don't delude yourself. And you speak of coincidence? Hardly. The universe is rarely so lazy."

"But you yourself speak of serendipity!"

"Serendipity, perhaps; but not coincidence, never coincidence." And with that he leapt from the cab, with Watson hurrying behind him, following their companions into the home that now housed a dead woman.

 **~0~0~**

The flat was dark when they entered; the heavy curtains pulled closed, leaving only a slim blade of light to slice through the suffocating room. Crossing quickly to the window, Lestrade pulled the curtains to the side, lighting the room and the one beyond. Molly stood against the wall, and gazed about her, taking it in. It was both sitting room and bedroom, and a little kitchen followed to the back. A chest sat directly across from her, and next to it a small desk and chair, where a gas lamp kept vigil with the company of pens and ink, and a few sheets of paper, both clean and covered in writing. Next to the desk stood a modest bed, offering not much in the way of comfort. And upon the bed lay a woman, her body naked, her mouth gaping, the crimson spill of blood smeared thick over her lips and chin.

Molly shrank back in horror; and indeed, from Dr. Watson she heard a noise of dismay.

"My God!" He exclaimed, taking a step forward. "Lestrade- have the decency to cover her!"

"No!" Holmes said quickly, then turned to Molly, as Lestrade looked between the pair in consternation. She was pale as a sheet, and clutched at the wall; her eyes round, her breath coming in short gasps. "Watson- take her out, a moment. She will be ill. Lestrade- touch _nothing._ This is, indeed, much worse than I feared. You might have warned us!"

"I did not know myself," he said earnestly. "I was only just informed, and given the address. If you want to blame someone, blame Anderson- he's yet to give me the files!"

"Scotland Yard is a public menace," Holmes muttered, as he watched Watson steer Molly gently out of the room. "Now," he said, and beckoned again to Lestrade, who stepped closer. "Tell me: what is this? I knew only that there had been killings across London, of women particularly. Nothing more has been printed in the papers. I know their tongues have been cut out, I know they have not been found. Have they all been found on beds? Unclothed? What was the manner of their killings? Tell me!"

"And I tell _you_ , Holmes, that I was sent a telegram in the small hours of this very morning, armed only with the knowledge that I was to come to the scene! I gathered you, and now am here. I was not involved in any of the previous investigations; Gregson keeps a tight lip, and a closed purse, and so we none of us had the slightest notion of the nature of these murders."

"And when will Anderson deliver the files?"

"This afternoon, if all goes well,"

"Then we must do what we can in the here, and the now. It is more dire a case than I suspected! By God, Lestrade, I expected better of you! This is a serious crime, and comes in a _string_ of serious crimes, and yet the Yard has done nothing! I suspect Mycroft had a hand in the sacking of Gregson."

"I tell you again, Holmes- I had nothing to do with the proceedings, I came to you, straight away!"

"As well you _should_!" Holmes shouted furiously, before pulling a breath in through his nose, reigning his temper. "However, what's done is done. And since you have finally come, it would be well if you simply _took my word as gospel._ Now. Shall we begin?"

Lestrade grunted in assent, clearly put out, and together they stood, scrutinizing the room. Holmes's eyes darted about, his mind and manner suddenly sharp, and cold. He walked to the bed, and stared down at the woman. Her body was twisted, her hair unkempt. The coverlets lay tangled between her legs, trailing onto the floor and obscuring the lower part of the bed. His eyes narrowed, and he leaned closer.

"Dr. Watson, I assure you- I am perfectly fine!" Came Molly's heated voice, and he turned to see her framed in the doorway, her features set as she rolled her sleeves to the elbow, her outer coat in John's arms. "Mr. Holmes," she continued, and came to stand beside him, at the bedside of the dead woman. "I will assist, in any way that I am able."

He looked at her for a moment, and studied her. Her chin was thrust out determinedly, her lips pressed into a thin, dogged line; her hands balled into fists, and yet wrapped around herself. Brown hair curled itself in wild ringlets, framing her face as it tumbled from its neat bun. She was pale, but shone in the light of the window; a tenacious woman, an exterminating angel. The scar stood plainly on her cheek, and yet she did not seek to hide it: no primps or powders were wasted on this small, enigmatic creature. In her eyes he recognized the need not only to prove herself, but to put another woman's pain to rest. Slowly, he nodded, his eyes never leaving hers. "Very well, Miss Hooper. Tell me," and he gestured at the dead woman before him. "What do you see?"

She stepped forward then, with a deep breath- and paused. "There is no smell," she said, and folded her knees gracefully under her to kneel at the bedside. "There is no smell- other than that of blood." She corrected herself. "But this woman was killed, I believe, within the last 12 or 13 hours; that puts it late at night, then. Rigor mortis has set in- see, how her hand is stiff."

She hesitated, looking to him for some sort of approval. When none came save a quirked brow and a curt nod, she turned firmly away, and continued. "The blood on her lips… oh, Mr. Holmes, her tongue has been cut away!"

"How do you know it was not ripped?" he asked dispassionately. She winced at that, but carried on, peering into the woman's mouth.

"The cut is clean. I do not have proper light, but- look, the stump is there still. However... she did not die of it, of either the blood loss, or from choking. See how she lies, flat on her back... oh, but it is too horrible!" She hid her eyes behind her fingers, glancing away. But he was persistent, and placed a hand to the small of her back. Was it comfort, or simply the energy that bristled through him, seeking another port?

"Go on, Molly- tell me more." _Molly._ Her name on his lips brought her back to the present, to the mangled woman before her. She looked at him, and at the two men standing behind him, their faces set, and grim, and disapproving. "There are marks on her neck," she said after a moment, "which belong to a man's hands."

"Not a woman's?"

"I suppose," she said slowly, "that it might be a woman's; but the chances are slim. See, there, the marks of his thumb. It is unlikely that a woman would have such a large hand, and such strength, unless she were quite large."

"Very good. Go on."

"And yet…" she continued, "and yet… her eyes are not open, and not closed; the lids are drawn down partially, and so it is unlikely that they have been tampered with after death. And look, look at the spill of blood… it has coagulated, against her lip, her chin, her neck; it has pooled in her mouth, and then hardened. If she had been alive when this evil deed was done, the struggle would have been great, and the blood would have been a terrible mess. Look, look at her wrists, her feet- she was not bound; this man depended on his own strength alone. And the tongue was cut, and cut _cleanly,_ another indication that this had been done to her after she was strangled- for that is clearly what the prints on her neck indicate. In short, Mr. Holmes, our killer had no serious interest in the causing of pain- he simply wished to see her dead. If he wished to torture the poor woman, then he would have done this deed while she were alive."

"And what of her nakedness?"

Molly turned away, her teeth burying themselves in her lip, her eyes squeezing shut. "I do not know."

"Do you suppose that she was assaulted?"

"It is possible." She concurred. Her hand flew to her mouth, the other to her middle, as if to ensure that the contents of her stomach stayed in place.

"Holmes, enough of this madness! Miss- Mrs. Hooper, please, come with me, I will bring you away from this. Where is your home?" Dr. Watson took her gently by the arm, while Lestrade looked concernedly on.

"I wish to stay!" She gasped between increasingly quick breaths, her eyes large. "No- please, Mr. Holmes- Sherlock, I cannot- cannot go back, not just yet, not with- with her, like _her- "_ she gestured wildly at the twisted body lying prone across the bed.

"My dear, but you are white as a sheet!" Exclaimed Dr. Watson, holding a hand to her brow, "and in a cold sweat. No, I must insist, it is absolutely too much- "

"Sherlock!" She screeched wildly, and reached for him, catching at his sleeve as he grabbed hold of her. "Do not- I _cannot- "_ and the legs beneath her turned to nothing more than boneless jelly, giving way beneath her, her body limp, her eyes rolling to the back of her head.

"Damn it all, Holmes!" Watson roared, and the three men leapt to attention, catching Molly's limp figure between them. "Did I not specifically _warn_ you- she's fainted dead away! The girl has _clearly_ been treated badly, and this is what you drag her into! If you cared at all- "

Holmes ignored him completely, and instead held her closer to himself, away from the grasp of the other men. "Molly… Molly, can you hear me?" He said in a cajoling voice, a voice not gentle but firm, insistent. "John, your smelling salts, quickly- "

"I haven't _brought_ them, you idiot, we're on a _case_ , not visiting a patient! Look, she's coming round- Sherlock, listen to me, she's fine. Miss Hooper? Yes, see, she's alright."

"Mmm…" Molly moaned, her eyelids flickering.

"This is a disaster! What on earth possessed me to come to you two?" Fretted Lestrade, wringing his hands.

"Because we are the _best."_ Snapped Holmes. "Molly, listen to me- I'm afraid you must leave, and I am- I am sorry, so sorry, to have brought you here, but we were on our way, you see, and I- I thought perhaps- "

"Oh!" Molly groaned, and touched a hand to her brow. "I'm… I'm a bit of a mess, I do apologize… did I faint?"

"Yes, Miss Hooper, and it's time I escorted you home," said Watson firmly, scooping up her tiny figure in his arms.

"Oh no, no please- that is to say I am, I am feeling much better now. Please, if you would be so good as to bring me some water, I could stay just- just out there. Put me down, if you would- please, don't let my presence disturb you; I do not wish to leave, just yet…"

"Watson, wait: I will fetch the water. Bring her just outside- Miss Hooper, a moment, and we will procure you transportation."

"And what of… all this?" Cried Lestrade, sweeping his hand across the foul room. Holmes paused, sniffed, and turned to face the Inspector.

"Miss Hooper was right: the tongue, the _tongues_ , are clearly meant as a trophy; there is some vulgar meaning behind it, no doubt. The girl was assaulted, there can be no ambiguity in the matter- see, the marks upon her thighs, her stomach. If the deed was not fully done, it is immaterial; this is a heinous enough crime in and of itself. But I cannot believe the Ambassador's wife was done in quite so cruelly- I would have known of _that,_ at least, from Mycroft. No: so our killer was choosy, and this unfortunate woman fit his bill in more ways than one; he has deviated from his norm by seeking her bed. See, how her hair was done up neatly, and is now in disarray; how the coverlets, the pillows are thrown about, when every other item in this room is in good order: clearly a great struggle was had. And then there is the desk. The lamp, burned down to the wick, the oil low: it burned all the night long. And the papers upon the desk, spread apart in such order? They were being shown to another- when have you ever spread papers across your desk in such a manner, if not to encourage the sharing of their information? It becomes suggestive that our victim knew her killer. But why would a woman let a man into her flat, in the night-time, with no other soul to chaperone? Highly indecorous. Perhaps there _was_ another soul? No; there is scarcely room in this flat for the four of us, it was hardly an over-social gathering. And see!" He said, walking briskly into the dark kitchen. "Kettle on the hob with water in, and two cups out- unused. Ah, and dry tea in the pot- our fellow was impatient, it seems." He quickly sloshed the water out of the kettle and into a cup, and darted round to the entry. "Here, give this to Miss Hooper- and, if my eyes do not deceive me... ah, yes, here is our lady's name, at the top of this page: Miss Lydia Dixon. And see here, Lestrade: these are the woman's notes. Technical in nature- I recognize here the formulas of chemistry. Now for God's sake cover her; see if there was anyone who saw, or heard. Check the universities, the hospitals- she may be affiliated, or perhaps even a student herself."

"Really, Holmes- a _student_ in chemistry? She's a woman, it hardly warrants a look!"

" _Do it."_ he snarled, "Or have you no further need of me?"

"No- no, that is to say, of course, Holmes- Holmes!" He gasped, for as he had covered Lydia Dixon's body, the coverlets had revealed what had been hidden cozily beneath.

"What can _possibly_ be the matt- " but as Holmes spun round, he froze; for there, under the bed, placed just so, was a man's pair of boots. They held the small light close; the air surrounding them was still. Objects so mundane, yet strangely ominous, they were. They beckoned to him- and he approached, carefully, entranced. Delicately he took hold of them, and held them up to the meager light. There was something very _wrong_ about their presence, there, beneath the dead woman's bed.

"The murderer has left his boots!" Cried Lestrade, breaking the spell of silence, and put out a hand to seize them- but with an easy step, Holmes held them back. "I think I will keep them." He said, and began to walk to the door.

"I should think not!" Lestrade exclaimed, "They're- they're _evidence_ , Holmes- they are the killer's boots, they belong to Scotland Yard!"

"They are not, and they _do_ not. Really, Lestrade, have you any sense at all? Intending to violently murder a woman, you'd just line your shoes up, neat as pie, hm? And run off through London, in the dead of winter, barefoot? It is shocking that we are not all sliced up in our sleep, the way Scotland Yard is run, the way you sordid people think. Watson! Come, we will see to it that Miss Hooper gets home. Lestrade- the moment you have a witness, or a friend, family member, anything- come to me, don't waste your time with the others. And the files, for God's sake, bring me everything you have! This whole affair should have been found out months ago!"

 **~0~0~**

The party was silent as they passed down the dark stairs. The winter air, cold and heavily laden with the filigree of London's work, passed deep through their lungs, and out again. With a half-muttered word of apology, Lestrade doffed his hat, bobbing hastily before taking his leave. They watched a moment as he dashed off. Watson glanced at the pair and, ducking his head, wandered off to find a cab.

"Let me apologize again, Miss Hooper..." Holmes said after a moment; his voice jerky, and uncomfortable, as if unused to apologies. She cocked her head at him, looking up into his face. Clearing his throat, he looked abashedly away, and said again to the ground, "I apologize, Miss Hooper, for any grief I might have caused you... I did not know the extent…"

"Please, it was my- my pleasure," she said swiftly and, hesitantly, took hold of his arm, brushing her gloved hand against his wrist. He stiffened, looking down at their contact as if it were a live thing, fearsome and poised to bite. "Mr. Holmes," she began carefully, "I- well, it's been a very odd- a very _trying_ sort of day, and- thank you. I have missed your company. I have been alone, all these months."

"But you are a married woman." He said callously, and she glared at him.

"Yes. Yes, I am. But I wish- I wish you to know, it was not my doing; it was not my choice."

"Hm," Holmes grunted noncommittally, glancing to the ground.

"I tell you, it was not!"

"I know."

"And yet you continue to goad me? To call me Miss, when I am Mrs.? It is a cruelty!"

"Why do you return to him, then?"

She shrugged at that, averting her eyes. "Because I must."

"Rubbish," he snorted, and she withdrew her arm suddenly, whirling to face him.

"I have nowhere to go, Sherlock! And before I clapped eyes on you this day, I had not a soul to confide in!"

"You might stay with me, if you wished it." He said pointedly, raising a brow at her.

She could not help it: she laughed. "Stay with _you?_ May I remind you that I am a married woman?"

"But unhappily so!"

"It does not matter! Mr. Holmes, have you no concept of propriety? And no, before you ask it, it is not my reputation that I worry for. No one knows me, here; what reputation could I possibly have?"

"Why, then? Why stay? For heaven's sake, Molly, what is it?"

But she twisted her lips, and would not look at him. "If- if he knew now, where I am, whose company I am sharing… no, Mr. Holmes, I have done enough, I think, for one day."

"Molly..." he began, but at that moment Watson puffed over to them, a Hansom cab at his heels. "Your address, Miss Hooper?"

She cast a glance back at Holmes, whose face had become a stern mask. "Clapham. On High Street, 316." Watson held the door open for her, and she lifted her skirts, climbing quickly in. "Mr. Holmes- will I see you again?"

"Undoubtedly." He replied, his expression cool as ever. And, quick as an arrow, the door was closed between them. The driver flicked his whip, the horse tossed its head, and she stared at him through the glass, memorizing the smooth angles of his face, the icy coldness of his gaze. He turned, as the cab began to move, and walked away.

 **~0~0~**

He turned, as the cab began to round the corner, and listened to the rattle of the wheels as they skimmed across the cobblestones. The cabbie lifted his head and, grinning, touched his fingers to his cap. With a wink, they were gone.

 _Clapham. On High Street, 316._

The address seared itself in his brain, and he whispered it; the words on his lips a hymn, a prayer.

 _Clapham. On High Street, 316._

Should he have brought her here, to such a violent sight? Had he been right, or not right? It didn't matter: she was gone, for now. Her nerves were sorely frayed, that much was certain, and she was in need of rest. And now she occupied a small room in his mind, slowly growing ever larger. He cursed, silently. Perhaps if he had brought her to Baker Street, her very presence would have been less of a distraction. But a tenuous connection had been made; a thin silver thread that lead from his person to hers, a possibility that had scarcely budded. It caught his breath, and made him frown, a crease forming between his brows. But the case! The case was at hand, a _pressing matter,_ and here was he, mooning over Miss Molly Hooper like a lost pup.

Watson cleared his throat. Holmes looked down upon his feet, and found that they were moving; mechanically, rigidly, one in front of the other. He stopped.

"Holmes?" The concern in Watson's voice was clear.

"We'd best return to the flat. I need to think." He said flatly. The doctor nodded briskly and, hailing the next available cab, were soon on their way back to Baker Street.

 **~0~0~**

Later in the day, when the shadows had become bold, and crept from their corners onto the carpet, Holmes sat at what had once passed for a kitchen table, and thought. The scarred wood was now host to countless books, papers; a microscope, various specimens that had been collected into little jars, speckled over the table like the pattern on a robin's egg. The rescued boots sat rigidly, their twin toes pointed neatly at his face. The boots stared at him, their faces blank, their buttons winking. And he considered them; his eyes narrowed, his fingers pressed together at his lips. Minutes passed, and marched their steady way on to the hour.

 _Ah._ Perhaps, something.

"Watson," he said presently, and laid his hands upon the table, one on either side of the offending boots.

"Mm?" Replied Watson from the desk, where he had been jotting down the notes of the case.

"Come for a moment, will you?"

The scrape of a chair followed his words, and soon enough he hovered by Holmes's side. "They are not the murderer's boots, I take it," said Watson thoughtfully, a glint if humor peering through his words. A smile tugged at Holmes's lips in response.

"Indeed they are not. I wonder, though, if you might tell me your thoughts?" And he took up the left boot in his hands, and offered it to his friend. Watson raised his brows, and scrubbed at his mustache in the nervous way that he often had. "Are you sure?"

Huffing slightly, Holmes pushed the boot into his hands. "Quite. Your mind is invaluable, Watson- it is a simple one, and thus sheds light into those interesting crevices which the plain mind is drawn to. From time to time, I overlook these nuances; and you have been known to strike upon them most avidly. Suppose now is one of those times?"

Watson pressed his lips tightly together, fighting the impulse to throw the damnable object into Holmes's oblivious face. "You would like to know my thoughts?" He muttered, flipping the boot between his hands.

"When have you ever had need to question me?" Holmes quipped.

"Often enough," Watson muttered, but he brought the shoe close to his eyes, and peered at it sharply. "Well, let's begin with the obvious, shall we? It is a boot, of black leather; a man's shoe, quite large, and of a style that is rather outdated, I should think- but then again, I suppose the fashions come and go, as they say. It is... quite clean, not a scrap of mud clings to them; and yet the leather is soft from use. And see, here, the faint marks of the brush used to blacken the tip. So I might hazard a guess that this shoe is worn by quite a tall man, who has a very high regard for his footwear."

"Is that all?" Said Holmes, quirking one brow casually upward.

"Yes... yes, I should think so. How have I done?"

"Well! Very well, Watson. You have, of course, missed all those details that prove most interesting, but it was hardly to be expected otherwise."

Watson promptly shoved the boot back into Holmes's hands and, scowling, seated himself at the table, arms folded irritably over his chest. The detective took it up with a smirk, and held it carefully between his long fingers. "This is, as you have noticed, not a shoe currently in vogue; this style was in fashion about twenty years ago. Correct me if I am wrong."

"You are, as ever, _not._ "

"Quite. And so, it should be no short stretch of the imagination to see that these boots are, in fact, at least 20 years old. You see that they are well cared for; that they are of an outdated style, and yet you assume that they are a current pair of shoes, worn by a living man. Would it not be a more ready answer if the shoes were simply _old?_ Twenty- _three_ years old, to be precise."

"How could you possibly tell that?"

"Ah," replied Holmes, holding up a slender finger. "But there's more. This man had weak arches- see here, the lack of wear on the inner edge," and he dragged his finger across the inside to demonstrate. "What's more, this man favored his right leg- his left leg was broken, no doubt, and set badly- and the poor fellow suffered from eczema."

"How in God's name- "

"See here, the flakes of skin that are tucked away into the crannies of the buttonholes."

"Yes, but- "

"And here, the clear signs of wear on the right shoe, that the left does not share."

"I see, Holmes, I see- but a broken leg, rather than an injury? It could be a bullet wound, or a fracture- how can you possibly _know?_ "

"And _furthermore,_ my dear Watson, you failed to see the most singularly perplexing piece of evidence put forth thus far." Said Holmes, raising his voice to cover Watson's.

"No," replied Watson, his own voice matched if not in intensity, then in exasperation. "No, it appears I did _not_ , and you are far too much of a Philistine to ever once leave those truths uncovered without taking the opportunity to rub my nose in it!"

"And that shocking piece of evidence," Holmes continued, placing his entire hand into the shoe and fumbling at the toe, "was _this."_ As Holmes pulled his hand out with a flourish, Watson spied a small, folded slip of paper nestled between the pointer and middle fingers. The initials _S.H._ were written carefully on its front, large and florid. Watson stared at it for a moment, before reaching for it- but Holmes was too quick, and had already unfolded it, laying it flat upon the tabletop. In a curling, elegant script, it read:

 _A gift._

And nothing more.

There was a moment of silence, where the two men stared down at the unassuming little thing. One thought furiously on its existence, while the other lapsed into a brooding silence.

"What does it mean?" Watson asked at last.

After a pause, Holmes answered, "It is a message, I think."

"Directed to you."

"I would think that obvious."

"How- "

"In my youth, Watson," Holmes sighed, pushing his chair away from the table with a hideous scrape, "there was a gentleman that died- drowned, in the pond behind his manor, in the town near where I lived. Caleb Coulter was his name. It was common knowledge amongst the servants that Coulter was fond of having an evening dip in the pond, especially in the summer-time, when the weather was mild. And so when his body was found, floating face-down with not a scratch upon him, not a one suspected anything other than an accident."

"Except you."

"Precisely. Excepting myself. But I was young, at the time- hardly more than a lad. I read about it in the papers, and tried to involve the police force… there was never a time when a policeman could not be counted as an ingrate! But of course no one would listen, least of all to myself (you will remember that I was a trouble-mongerer). It struck me as odd, however, that they had not recovered his shoes. _Where were his shoes?_ The paper had stated that it had rained heavily earlier in the day, and his booted footprints were plain in the mud: an easy trail to trace. Then what had become of his shoes, once he had gone into the water? It did not sit well with my young head, and smacked of foul play." Holmes gripped the edge of the chair, and scowled down at it. After a moment, Watson replied,

"And so you believe these are the very boots."

"I do."

"Whatever can it mean?"

He was silent for a moment, and then, as if making up his mind, went to the kitchen and, striking a match, set the kettle to boil. "Tea, Watson?" He asked, as if there were no more to be said.

"Please- and an answer, if you will." Holmes smirked at the tea leaves, and shook a pinch into the pot. "Like I said, it is a message."

"But from whom?"

Holmes said nothing, but watched the gentle glow of the flames from the hob. Watson pulled at his moustache, and furrowed his brow. "Do you…" he began, and cleared his throat. "Do you suppose the killer of Miss Dixon, and that of Caleb Coulter, are one and the same?"

Again, nothing was said; but Watson, growing agitated, asked again, "But why on Earth would it be addressed to you?"

"Do you not see it, Watson!" Holmes finally burst out. "Who do you suppose _reads_ the inanities you publish in that hog-pot of a paper? Someone has taken notice, and seeks to draw me out."

" _Inanities?"_ Retorted Watson. "Holmes, may I remind you that it is because of my work alone that we have clients- and an _income-_ at all!"

"Rubbish and twaddle, all of it. I had clients before you, and they would continue to come if your existence had not been known to me."

"Nobody cares!" Watson shouted, bristling with sudden fury. "Nobody cares an _ounce_ for two-hundred-forty-three sorts of tobacco ash!"

The kettle whistled in alarm, and Holmes did nothing to quell it, but simply pointed at the door. "Toby!" He exclaimed abruptly. John turned to glance behind him quizzically, alarmed at his sudden change in demeanor- but there was nobody.

"Toby? Wh- Holmes, who on Earth is Toby? There's not a soul in the flat save you and I!"

 _"Toby!"_ Shrieked Holmes again, and saved the screeching kettle from their ears. "I am in need of him, Watson- go and fetch him!"

Watson stared at him, slack-jawed in his amazement. "I know of no person named Toby!" He insisted.

" _Toby!_ The little one- you know, the boy, the lad, that comes in unannounced begging for a copper or a biscuit- Toby! Send word for him, or fetch him, or- for God's sake, Watson, no tea for you!"

"You mean Archie." Watson said after a moment, seizing his coat and hat, and quivering in irritation. Holmes looked up from the pacing he had only just begun, and paused by the window.

"Hm? Yes, that's what I said- you must _listen,_ Watson, those ears are not meant as decoration! Oh- there's Lestrade just now; very good, I suspect that young man accompanying him is Miss Dixon's intended."

"I- what? Lestrade is coming now?"

" _Watson!"_ Holmes rounded on him, "I would have a word with _Archie._ Get him here- no, no on second thought- give him this-" and he paused to scrawl a note upon a fragment of paper. "Where are the damnable things… ah. And this." Pulling a card from beneath the microscope, he flipped it over and scrawled away. "Here: give him these, and a guinea should do the trick- yes, that's the all of it. Hurry, now, lest you should wish to run my errands in his place!"

"God only knows, Holmes, why it is that I put up with you." Watson muttered under his breath, leaving the room. Not a moment later, the bell rang, and the aggravated doctor found himself flattened against the wall as a breathless Lestrade raced up to the flat, a tall, earnest-looking young man in tow. Watching the two men for a moment, he made up his mind to be quick about his errand, not wanting to miss the interview that would surely take place, and hurried out.

Holmes watched as he departed, and quickly crossed to where he had left the mysterious note lying upon the kitchen table. Stuffing it hastily into the pocket of his dressing gown, he turned to greet his guests, as the cogs beneath the cold exterior whirred and ticked.

 **~0~0~**

She felt numb; like a slap to the face that leaves your brain rattling, like a dream that is all suspended darkness without the knowledge of light.

She had seen him. He had been there, and she had been in his arms for that brief, paltry moment in time. She smelled his smell on her skin, mingled with the stench of fear that lingered on her slip. It had been a long day, by anybody's reckoning; a day of damsels-in-distress and dashing rescues, of murder most foul, and plight and words left unsaid. And now Molly sat again, in her little room, the coverlets pulled up to her chin, emerging from a late afternoon nap as if nothing in the world had come to pass.

She had slipped in easily with the key Julie had given her, and hung up her things, silent as a mouse. Peering into the kitchen, Molly had found her dozing at the fire, and Soames scowling at the greasy cards that he slapped upon the table, a hunk of bread and cheese at his elbow, his flask uncapped and at the ready.

She had not been missed.

And yet, nothing had changed. She was still here, prisoner and not-prisoner; woman and not-woman. With no way of contacting _him._

And she hadn't even brought home the shopping.

She was a failure, in all sense of the word. So why _shouldn't_ she have a lie-down, hm? She was nothing, and good for nothing: why should she not sleep, and allow the nether-worlds to suck her up into its terrifying grasp? Just as well, just as well.

So she slept.

And she woke.

And at the foot of her bed, a basket peered up at her, gleaming in the light of a flaring candle. Julie's eyes glimmered with fever, though her chalky face twisted into a mischievous smile. "Just came for you, Mistress- little boy had it, and brought it here. He said it was for you. Whatever have you been up to?" She wondered, and coughed.

"I- a boy?" Molly asked, and her voice was dry as sandpaper upon wood.

"Never mind that- look at this! Cakes, and fine tea, and- well, potato, onion, carrot, what-have-you- and such a cut of beef! I never!"

Molly leapt to her feet, and together they emptied the basket onto the floor, Julie's illness all but forgotten as they whispered and giggled at the contents. They spread them about, like a gay picnic in the spring-time. Julie seized it all up in her arms, ready to deposit the lovely goods back into the basket and store it away. "But Miss- there's more, Miss!" She exclaimed, and shook out the remaining objects. "They are for you, Mistress, I'm sure of it!"

A little bottle was slapped into Molly's hand, accompanied by a note. She squinted at the bottle in the half-light. _Parker's Sleeping Tonic._ She furrowed her brow at it, then burst out in a laugh. "How very strange!"

"And the note, Mistress? What does it say?"

It read, in a quick, untidy scrawl,

 _Thursday next. 10:00._

 _221B, Baker Street._

 _S.H._

And at long last, Molly's face broke into a true, honest grin.


	18. Time, Or Something Like It

**A/N: GUYS. Happy Christmas, if you're celebrating! I am SO sorry it took me ages! I had the romantic idea of writing the first draft by hand, which turned out to be very stupid and time-consuming. So, couple things. First off- THANK YOU to all of you who voted for Lark in the SAMFA's! I am happy to report that this story tied for first in the Best AU rated T category! You are all amazing, and I can't thank you enough for taking the time to read this!**

 **Secondly, A huge thank you to likingthistoomuch, for being fantastically encouraging while writing this chapter. I can never thank you enough!**

 **And thirdly, as an apology for taking ages- if you're into Christmasy music, I posted my recording of Greensleeves- just type 'atonalhits greensleeves' into youtube and it should come up. Happy Christmas! :)**

 **XVIII. Time, Or Something Like It**

"Here," said Lestrade, striding in with a confident air, "is whatever information- any reports, any files, I was able to put my hands on. They were somewhat _reluctant_ to put them into my- that is to say, _your-_ possession. I can't imagine why," he finished dryly, and held out to Holmes a heavy satchel, stamped across with Scotland Yard's insignia.

Holmes turned from his position by the window, and smiled grimly. "I expected as much. Such is the cross I must bear! The whole lot of them, frightened to death of me- I might snatch this tantalizing case from under their very noses, you see. Which, fortunately for me, they are quite correct about. Put it just there," he said with a wave of his hand, gesturing to the side table. "Ah, but I see you have brought a guest, Lestrade! How very good of you. Sit, good Sir, and tell me your name. Tea? Or perhaps something a nip stronger, for the nerves? You look as though you could use it."

"Nothing, thank you," said the man politely, and made slow progress to the rickety chair between the armchairs Lestrade and Holmes had already claimed. He swayed slightly, his frame thin and his face so pale it looked as if a good draft of wind might blow him away completely. "I am Peter Matthews," he said in a voice soft as dandelion fluff, before folding heavily into the chair.

"And you are- were- Miss Dixon's intended."

"I- yes, yes I was. The Inspector has informed you, I take it?" He asked glancing at Lestrade, who was fumbling about in the pockets of his coat.

"He has not- but never mind that. I take it this now belongs to you?" And Holmes withdrew from the pocket of his dressing gown a little gold ring, with a small, sparkling stone set upon it. It caught the firelight, and twinkled. Mr. Matthews gasped at the sight of it, and reached forward with an open palm. Holmes dropped the ring into it unhesitatingly, and caught the eye of Lestrade, who shot him an astonished, questioning glance.

"Th-thank you, Mr. Holmes!" Mr. Matthews choked, and the poor man finally broke, his body shaking uncontrollably as the physical force of his despair shook him like a tiger uncaged. "Thank you..."

"Where on Earth- " began Lestrade, but with a pointed look, Holmes silenced him.

"Pour our friend a drink, Inspector- he is in dire need of one, if he is to produce any information at all."

"No- no! I will be alright, in time..."

"I am afraid _time-_ and patience- are not things which I possess in abundance. Be so good as to control your grief: this is the only way, I am afraid, we will come to the bottom of this despicable crime."

"Have you no heart, Mr. Holmes?" Cried Mr. Matthews plaintively, looking at him with red-rimmed, drooping eyes.

"I have a _brain,_ Mr. Matthews- a rather good one, which I am assured is vastly more useful than any sentimental persuasion my heart has ever produced. I tell you now that information is of the essence.

Will you prove useful to Miss Dixon, or must I dismiss you completely?" Replied Mr. Holmes in an icy voice, his features stony.

"No! No, I implore you- I meant no harm, forgive me. I am merely distraught."

"Then speak, you fool! She was clearly a student of the Royal College of Science- it was perfectly clear from the way her formulae were distributed. Now tell me this: how did she come to be involved in such a peculiar area of study for a lady? Chemistry was her emphasis- her father was himself involved in the sciences, I believe, and her mother dead? No; no, ah, her father dead as well- but how long has it been- two, three years at most?"

"One and a half, but- "

"Mother dies at an early age, Miss Dixon has no guiding female hand, and is left to her own devices. Her father held a post at the college?"

"Yes- a professor of Maths- "

"- and so Lydia was free to do as she pleased. I see. Now, her peers: tell me about them. I have my hypotheses, but I would not like them sullied by guesswork."

Mr. Matthews fixed him with a long, bloodshot stare, which Holmes returned with restless vigor. Who won that battle of wills, or whether it ought to be even called such, is nobody's guess. But presently, Mr. Matthews looked away, his lips tight, and trembling. "You are an abhorrent excuse for a man," he said after a moment, "but seeing as I have heard you are the man one must subject oneself to in order to get a scrap of justice... I will do it. For Lydia's sake, as well as my own."

"Excellent. Splendid, glad we've got that sorted. Now: her peers, Mr. Matthews?" At that moment there was a heavy clap of shoes upon the stairs, a puff of breath and a great sniffle. Watson banged into the room breathlessly, his hat clenched in one hand, his eyes a keen spark of excitement. "What have I missed?" He asked breathlessly. Holmes shot him a sour glance, and gestured irritably at the door.

"Even better: the narrator has arrived, we can all go on with our business now. Shut the door, Watson, you've made a draft."

"Who- "began Mr. Matthews in surprise.

"Never mind- completely unimportant. You may speak freely in front of him, he hardly understands anything. The same could be said of our mutton-chopped Inspector, but there you are. Her peers, Mr. Matthews!"

"Yes, yes, alright, her peers... well. I suppose, they were not pleased with her presence."

Holmes made a strangled sound in the back of his throat, and his fingers tapped furiously upon the arm of his chair. "Yes, and now she is dead. Perhaps you ought to consider speaking more quickly."

"There were threats, you knave!" Shouted Mr. Matthews furiously, springing to his feet. "I saw her more than once with bruises upon her face... with taunts and insults fresh in her mind. She wept, Mr. Holmes, she was miserable!"

"She was struck by another student? By a _gentleman?"_ Queried Watson in astonishment.

"Hardly a gentleman," scoffed Mr. Matthews. "No- a fool, and a bully. I do not think he struck her- not outright, at any rate. She claimed she tripped, and I believed her. As equally as I believed it was his foot that caused the tripping."

"And did this disgrace of a human being possess a name?" Prompted Holmes calmly.

"Yes- Alexander Kendricks, I believe- or perhaps it was Alistair- "

"Quite. And her professors? Were they equally as _friendly_ in nature?"

"I- yes. That is to say, I do not know any of them personally, but Lydia had made it quite clear that she was merely tolerated- "

"Yes, yes, very good. Lestrade, you might look into the professors at the college- who knew her father, who did not, that sort of thing. Mr. Matthews, I am sorry for the loss of your fiancé. I did not know her, but no soul deserves to be treated as she clearly was. Good day; do see yourself out."

"Is that it?" Cried Mr. Matthews almost immediately, leaping again to his feet. "Is that all you wanted to know? I have barely said a word!"

"On the contrary, Mr. Matthews: you have given me insight as to her character, her situation- and similarly, to yours. Tell me, why did you not spring to your lady's defense?"

At this, Matthews' pale, splotched face turned an alarming shade of crimson. "How _dare_ you insinuate- "

"Surely any self-respecting gentleman would have fought her case?" Interrupted Holmes languidly, his long fingers draped easily across his knee.

"I was at my wit's end! How could you possibly know- I tried, Holmes, by God I tried- but Lydia would not have it! She insisted that I was not to come to the College, not at all, not _once_ \- that if I were to, to _insinuate_ myself into her affairs, they would not respect her- as if-! "

"Ah. This does make the matter clearer. Thank you, Mr. Matthews. Please- Watson has not shut the door properly, do so on your way out."

Mr. Matthews opened and closed his mouth, an unnerving fish deprived of water. Clenching his fists tightly, he reached for his hat, cramming it furiously onto his head as he searched his pockets for his gloves. "Mr. Holmes- I hope to God you are as brilliant as they say. If you are not, then I cannot imagine a man more undeserving of the air we breathe."

"Oh, I could think of one or two," smiled Holmes brightly. "My regards to your Mother- I'm quite sure she'll be pleased with the return of her lost ring."

With one last flabbergasted, furious huff of indignation, Mr. Matthews turned tail, and practically fled from the apartment. The silence held for all of a moment before Holmes reached for his pipe, standing tidily in its rack, and fishing beneath his chair for the Persian slipper that held his collection of tobacco.

"That went well," remarked Watson, reclining into the sofa with a sigh.

"Did it?" Asked Lestrade confusedly, eyeing Holmes's collection of pipes with something akin to longing.

"Remarkably." Puffed Holmes, and gestured to a pipe. "Go on then, Inspector- you are as plain as bleeding heart."

"No- no, thank you, Holmes," said Lestrade, waving him away. "But I must say- is it possible, this man, Kendricks- "

"Don't be a fool!" Chuckled Holmes, packing the bowl of his pipe neatly. "Really, Lestrade- the killer of six women, a snotty well-to-do young man with nothing better to do with his time than trip up an aspiring, intelligent young woman? Nonsense. Our killer is not so dreadfully obvious. Although Kendricks will, I have no doubt, find trouble for himself in a dingy opium-hole before the year is up, mark my words. No good end will find him; they never do, this type."

"But suppose she was lying? Why would she so desperately wish for him not to come round to the College?"

"Ah, now we're thinking! Yes, she was lying- but not about the silly little men that harassed her. Something bigger, I should think."

"Bigger? Do you suppose she knew her killer?" Interjected Watson, sitting forward with a furrowed brow.

"Of course she did! But that's not the point: the ring, my dear fellow, the _ring!_ Aren't you going to ask where it came from? My God, but how slow your little minds must be! So placid, so under-used…the ring was tucked away in the pocket of her dress- not the best hiding place, I assure you, but then, Miss Dixon was not a student of subterfuge, but of chemistry. What can we conclude from the evidence? Miss Dixon knew her killer; he was a man of some learning, _trusted_ , so we can assume a man that has been known to her since childhood, a friend of her father's: a professor, or assistant, at the Royal College of Science. Ah, but a late-night rendez-vous, at her flat? Two cozy cups of tea, over the scatterings of complicated formulae, the ring hastily tucked away? She clearly had an interest in the man- in _both_ men, for whatever reason- and endeavored to hold their worlds apart until she had firmly made up her mind. So far, so obvious."

"It does make sense," said Lestrade slowly, twisting his glove in his hand.

"Of course it does." Snapped Holmes. "Now go away, so I can look at these delightful files you've brought. Watson, go to the College- we need information. A directory, if there is one; students, professors, all things possibly interesting. This is getting rather exciting now, isn't it?" Remarked Holmes, rubbing his hands together gleefully, the smoking pipe protruding from his lips.

"Like a boy in a sweet shop," muttered Lestrade darkly, and took his leave.

 **~0~0~**

 _Thursday._ The smoky tendrils of sleep tugged gently at her mind, little curls of wakefulness that soothed the transition from dark to light.

 _Thursday._

Her eyes blinked open. The room was dark- but then, it was always dark. It had become customary; a thing accepted with obdurate distaste.

But today was _Thursday._ Today she would see the light, London's splendid, grey light; and the cold damp, that biting chill would gnaw through her coat and dress and shift, entering her bones. And she cared not a whit, that was the crux of it: for at 10:00 she expected to be standing on the stoop of 221 Baker St, her hand poised gracefully at the knocker.

She smiled, turning her face into the pillow, and squeezed her eyes shut, relishing the last remnants of cozy warmth. But finally, with a great huff, she threw back the coverlets and squeaked as the icy air hit her like a bolt. Her feet felt hurriedly for the slippers strewn across the chilly floorboards, and she took the plunge, reaching for her dressing gown draped over the chair. The little clock on the bureau chuckled at her in its wheezing timelessness, _tick, tick, tick._ Half-past seven, its luminous face grinned. Good, then. There was time, time in plenty. She shivered, and smiled a little wider. _The kitchen_ , she decided after a moment. Though it was early, and Julie might not yet have the fire lit, she could do it herself, and perhaps start on a pot of tea. With that decided, she opened the door, and shuffled cheerfully out onto the landing.

"Good morning, Molly."

She shrieked in surprise, the door slamming behind her with the force of a sudden draft. There he sat, looking up at her with wide, dark eyes as he perched backward on a chair. His chin was propped against the back of it, so that he looked suddenly child-like; an imp in the dark, all eyes and teeth as he flashed her a grin.

"Mr. Brook!" She exclaimed once she had caught her breath. "I did not see you!"

He laughed under his breath, and leapt to his feet like a boy half his age, extending a neatly clad arm to her. "Care to share some breakfast?" He said brightly, and waggled his elbow in her direction, urging her to take it. "Come now, it's time we… _learned_ a bit more of each other, isn't it?" She half expected him to break out into whistling, he was so insistent. It was _manic_ , she realized, his behavior so over-blown that it seemed ready to break the proverbial lid. " _Molly!"_ He demanded after a moment in which she had done nothing but stare. He seized her hand, and wrapped it about his arm. "There, that's better. Off we go, Mrs. Brook!"

They descended the stairs with undue pomp and, on entering the dining room, he drew back a chair for her, gesturing to sit before he took his own seat. A little silver bell sat neatly upon the table, and he rang it, its pretty tinkle echoing off the walls. After a moment, Julie appeared, her eyes dull with sleep. She did not bother to hide her yawn as she burst through the door, tying the strings of her apron fast.

"Bit early for you, isn't it, Miss? You could've just given a shout, I wouldn'ta minded- " She began, but stopped short as she spied the uneasy couple seated at the table, her mouth a round little 'o' of surprise. Mr. Brook beamed up at her, his face bright and startlingly pleasant. "Good morning, Julie. Kippers, I think, and toast- and, ah, eggs, I should think. Oh, and tea, of course, for my lovely wife!" He said amiably, reaching out to pat Molly's hand. Both women stared at him with something akin to alarm, as his smile did nothing but grow. Molly shifted slightly, pulling her hand away, and shooting a quick glance at Julie. A little shift of the head, which meant, _Go!_ , and Julie shook herself. "Right away, Sir!" She squeaked, and darted off into the kitchen, the clanging of pots and pans following soon after.

The silence between them grew ripe, and anxious. Molly looked down at her hands upon the table, her fingers picking nervously at the corner of her thumb where nail met flesh. She felt the weight of his sultry stare, his heavy gaze languid as he scanned her face, took her in. Casting desperately for an excuse and finding none close at hand, she stood abruptly. "I think I will tell Julie I- I will want a bit of jam- she sometimes forgets- "

"I will call for her." Mr. Brook said immediately, reaching for the bell.

"No! No, thank you, it's not necessary, I'll only be a moment- "

"Sit down." The words were not so much a command, as an invitation; a continuation of the gentleman he had cultivated and drew out, when the need suited him. But behind his smooth courtesy lay a hard layer of steel; the formidable man that held her like a vice in this life.

So she sat, and was not surprised when her eyes caught his own, and held his gaze. His lip curled as they fought their silent battle, an amusement woven through with a contempt for her so rich, so blatant, that she was taken aback with its fervor. His smile widened, and she shook herself, for she must have been mistaken. _Contempt?_ It seemed a strange thing to covet in a captive bride.

"Do you take jam with your toast? Or with your tea?" He asked suddenly, all good-natured inquisitiveness.

"I beg your pardon?" She asked in startled surprise.

"It seems a thing a spouse should know," he purred, leaning close, his hand draping fluidly over the table.

"I cannot say I have ever heard of jam with tea." She said coldly. "It sounds barbaric."

He laughed heartily at that, and clapped his hands together. "Ah! Barbaric! Yes, yes, indeed... it is a custom, I hear, in some parts of Russia."

She nodded uncomfortably, and took up her napkin, twisting it in her lap. Mr. Brook laughed again, a low chuckle, and leaned back in his chair. "To business, then, my dear, since you cannot be bothered to keep up polite conversation. I agree with you, unerringly... polite conversation is _death_ to the cultivated man."

"And are you a cultivated man?" She quipped automatically.

He paused a moment, frowning. "I should think so. Do not presume to think Molly, my dear, that I am a simple man. I am _endlessly_ enigmatic. But enough of that; you will know me very well- my methods, my longings, my soul- before the end of it."

She looked up in sudden alarm. There was something strange in his voice; a careful lilt, a muted glee. "The end of _what,_ precisely?" She asked in some trepidation.

"Do you remember, my sweet, the terms of our little arrangement? Your weekly rendezvous with the city of London, with the world at large- chaperoned, of course. Tell me, how have you been enjoying them? What have you and Julie been... _up to?"_

She swallowed, and said nothing. Seeing this, his grin grew wider, so full it seemed fit to burst. "Ah, I seem to have struck some sort of chord! At last, I was beginning to think you were made of stone- and that would be no fun; no fun at all. No, we are only in need of _one_ of those in every story. Do tell, my dear: what _have_ you and that wench been doing? Buying ribbons, hm? Frilly things and sweet cakes?"

"We're not _children,"_ she snapped before she could stop herself. Mr. Brook leaned back in his chair, looking inordinately pleased with himself. It was as if she had been caught up in some web she had no idea he had been weaving. She felt uneasy, and trapped, and dared not look into his eyes, lest he read her secret. But there was no way he could _not_ know of their meeting, or of what she intended for her day. He was like some demon in the mist, that cackled and taunted and questioned, but knew all. Or- was the thought even possible?- he _chose_ to ignore what seemed so horribly obvious in Molly's eyes.

He whistled out a stream of air from between his lips, and stared at her, his black eyes gleaming. "Of course not, Molly. Of course you're not a child. But remember this: " and he flowed forward, sleek and polished, smoothing a hand over her wrist. "I. _Own_. You. I will _always_ own you. No matter what you do, where you fly, whose company you keep… I _know_. Never doubt that." His hand upon her wrist had grown tighter, and tighter; a turn of the screw, an iron fist. She pulled back suddenly, unable to bear the pain silently any longer. He released her just as abruptly, and she cradled her hand, looking down at the rapidly purpling prints left upon her wrist. She believed him, without doubt, without hesitation, and the despair that lurked deep in her mind took that moment to surface, gasping for air. Molly stared at him, and he did not look away.

 _I own you._

It lingered in the air; a truth, a resentment.

Julie chose that moment to enter with a rustling clatter of dishes and banging doors. The tense air between them did nothing to stop her, and she breezed through it, oblivious and unaware. The tea was fragrant, the eggs nestled into their little cups at odd angles. A plate at each setting, the deep red of kipper set across them like a wound.

The meal was served, the hot brown liquid poured.

"Eat your kipper," said Mr. Brook.

So she did.

 **~0~0~**

The door was a looming, black thing; a barrier, an obstacle- between her, and- what, exactly? Happiness? Truth? Did her life stand in that limbo, ever teetering on the brink between desire and duty? She hesitated, looking up at the numbers, the cold brass knocker. _221._ Whose hands had clasped that metal, whose answers had been found here? She raised a hand, and down the knocker fell; once, twice, thrice.

A shuffle of footsteps, a huff of irritation. The door was thrown open, and in its place stood a woman, her brows bunched in exasperation, her air distracted. "Oh- come in, dear- my, but it's cold today!" She exclaimed, standing back to beckon Molly through. "Here to see Mr. Holmes, I expect? Well! I can't say as you'll get much use out of him today- out of sorts, isn't he?" She closed the door behind Molly, twisting her head back as if listening hard. "And who are you, by the way? I suppose it's really none of my business, but it _is_ my house, you know, and one does begin to wonder, all of these people, in and out, all hours of the day- and the noise! My goodness, but he does get up to a racket. You're not one of the noisy ones, are you? No, you don't look it, my dear; not at all. Just as well. Would you just _listen_ to that! Those two, carrying on- having a bit of a domestic, I expect. Perhaps you'll be able to distract them. Oh, I'm Mrs. Hudson, by the way, who are you?" She said all of this quite quickly and, Molly suspected, in a voice not quite her own, pitched to cover the dulcet clamoring from the floor above.

"I- I am… Miss Hooper," she stammered, wondering at the words that escaped her mouth. "And I believe I'm rather late- that is him, isn't it? Shouting?"

"He's expecting you then, is he? On with you, then, and _do_ tell them to pipe it down a bit! Honestly!" Mrs. Hudson muttered, bustling away to her own flat and shutting the door. Molly looked up the stairs hesitantly, the muffled footsteps rushing this way and that, punctuated only by the raising of a voice, spiraling up, then down again to an intent murmur. She found her feet upon the stairs, her hand brushing the smooth bannister as she came to the door at the top of the landing.

Knocking tentatively at the door, she pushed at it when no reply was forthcoming. "Mr. Holmes?" She asked to the room at large- and then stopped in amazement. The occupants were fabulously oblivious to their audience, even as Molly stood, slightly slack-jawed, in the entrance. The room was not large, and neither was it small; but whatever size it truly was, it seemed filled to the brim with wonder. Mounted on the wall was a buck's head, an ear horn dangling from its marvelous antlers. On the mantlepiece stood a human skull, keeping close company with what she could only assume was Mr. Holmes's correspondence, stabbed through as it was with a pen-knife. The opposite wall held a curious painting of a skull- or was it a woman?- and the letters VR carved somehow into the wallpaper. And amidst all the notorious morbidity, the curious specimens beneath glass that begged her closer attention, the two men stood; a fuming Dr. Watson, and a perfectly blasé Mr. Holmes.

"Simply because you cannot remember her _name_ is not grounds for disliking her! The fault is entirely yours!" Roared Watson furiously, pointing a shaking finger at Holmes's turned back.

"Is it?" Replied Holmes consideringly. "That's interesting." He stood upon the sofa, in a long blue silk dressing gown and carpet slippers, and seemed to be tacking something to the wall alongside a veritable spider's web of pinned up newspaper clippings, occasional photographs; bits of twine and scrawled notes.

Watson seemed ready to explode, quivering with irritation. "For God's _sake-_ " and he paused, inhaling deliberately through his nose. "Would it be so very _difficult_ for you- "

"In point of fact," interrupted Holmes through gritted teeth, pressing at something into the wall, "She's not your sort, and you really oughtn't waste your time on such a pointless woman."

"How would you know what _sort_ I like, hm? Have you _ever- "_

"Boring!" Holmes burst out, and apparently succeeded at whatever odd task he had taken up, for he uttered a little grunt of approval, and ducked down to retrieve something from the sofa. "She's boring, Watson, _incandescently_ boring; a terrible suffragette to boot, and a really excellent liar. Ah, this should do nicely- " and he grinned, hopping down to admire the effect. A pair of men's boots now hung from the wall, their laces tied haphazardly together so that they drooped from the tack that held them. "And anyway- case! There's a case on, _loads_ of ghastly murders with a mysteriously personal bent, and here you are, wasting your time with an old trout!"

"You're one to talk," Muttered Watson, winding his scarf about his neck.

"Whatever do you mean?" Puzzled Holmes, finally turning to glance at his friend. "Oh! Miss Hooper! Look, Watson, it's Molly Hooper. Hullo, what are you doing here?"

"Oh!" Exclaimed Molly, who had become frozen during the exchange, taking in the absolute bizarreness of the flat she had landed in, the wonderful air of frenzied freedom that inhabited his world. And it all came crashing down with those words, as he stared at her with a quizzical expression, as if he could not for the life of him understand her presence in his home. "Oh," she stammered again, flushing deeply. "I- I was under the impression that you had invited me, Mr. Holmes- I see that I was mistaken, forgive me, I- I'll just see myself out- "

"Nonsense! Why on Earth would you do that?" Exclaimed Holmes immediately, crossing the room in two swift strides and pulling her in with a tug to the arm, the door swinging shut behind her. "I'll put on the kettle- is it not Wednesday?"

"N-no, it is Thursday- "

"And I thought I had written Saturday?"

"Oh- no! No, you wrote Thursday- "

"Ah, well, there you have it. Do come in, Watson was just leaving."

"Yes, I seem to have been," groused Dr. Watson, swinging his coat over his shoulders. "Have a care, Holmes, don't poison the young lady. She is undeserving of your favors, surely. Good day, Miss Hooper," he said, tipping his hat in her direction.

"Dr Watson," she replied, and he swept out, with a final scowl at Holmes's figure, retreating into the kitchen.

"Tea?" Came his cheerful voice, and she found herself moving farther into the room curiously. "Please," She called over her shoulder, eyeing the skull on the mantle. It leered at her, and she could not resist the urge to take it up in her hands; to turn it over, to hold it up to the light and examine it. It was exquisite, really; a perfect specimen of the human form, the brutal evidence of man's mortality.

"Ah." He stood there, a china pot in one hand and two mismatched teacups hanging from his fingers. He looked, she thought, perfectly homely for a moment; as if it were he who was the intruder, and she the one who belonged, the skull cradled between her cupped palms. "I see you've met my friend." He said, wading into the room, newspaper crackling underfoot.

"Your friend!" She exclaimed, looking aghast at the skull, "I do hope- "

"Well, I say friend…anyhow. _He's_ not why I asked you here."

"Then you did, in fact, ask me to come?"

"Whatever else could you have thought of my note, Miss Hooper? No, no. Sugar? I hope not, we haven't got any. Well. Sit, please- and have a look at _this."_

She approached, and tucked herself into the chair opposite Mr. Holmes, settling the skull upon the side-table. Taking up the proffered paper, she glanced down at its type-written letters:

Miss Sarah Harker

Miss Mary Goodwin

Pastor Emma Morrison

Mrs. Erika Maclane

Miss Lydia Dixon

"What is this? Who are these women?" She asked, handing the paper back to him, which he slid neatly back into a folder leaned against his chair.

"You will recall the dead woman, last week."

"However could I forget?" Molly began. "That is- surely- are all of those women _dead?_ "

"You're quite quick, did you know?" Holmes replied by way of answer, and passed her a freshly poured cup of tea, which she accepted gratefully. "Yes- all six of those women are dead."

"How dreadful!" She exclaimed.

"Yes, quite. The unfortunate lady we met last week was Miss Lydia Dixon- last on the list. Last to be killed. Our job, Miss Hooper, is to catch our villain, and to ensure another murder does not occur."

"How are we to do it?" Molly asked eagerly, leaning forward and paying no mind to the steaming cup that had begun to drip steadily onto the carpet. Holmes snorted, leaning back in his chair.

"I see you have no protests in being involved! Well, then, let me simply preface with this: finding a killer is vastly more boring than one might think. We may very well have nothing but tea once a week; a discussion of our thoughts."

"Oh," she faltered, drooping somewhat.

"Then of course, we may not. So here is the essence of it: each of these women were found, strangled, in their own homes, their tongues removed."

"So this is how they are connected, then? Their tongues are gone, making this likely the work of one man, or a copy-cat. Have you examined all of the bodies, Mr. Holmes, or simply that of Miss Dixon's?"

"No," he griped, taking a drink from his over-hot cup, and winced, smacking his lips before continuing. "Too late, too far gone; they've all been buried. I could demand an exhumation- but that is hardly the point. It _is_ one man."

"But how can you tell?" She cried in protest. "Well- tell me in due course, if you won't tell me now," she said in response to his thinly veiled reluctance. "But what else have you found? Surely details of the women? Their station, their affairs? Was Miss Dixon the only to be a- assaulted?" The word forced itself from her mouth, and she gasped suddenly, her hand trembling. The tea from her cup met the carpet in a thin stream. Holmes eyed the damp patch that grew steadily, then peered inquisitively into her face.

"What has he done to you? That _husband_ of yours- I expect he has no knowledge of our meeting. Ah, I see the truth written plain. So he does know? Well, then: he is clearly useless. But Molly- " And he stood from his chair, advancing on her, his eyes narrowing, his face hard and set. Crouching in front of her, their eyes met, flaming green and blue and brown, all in the collision of one gaze. One finger unfurled itself from the collection of his fist, long and curious. And the inevitable contact was a little spark of energy, a coursing of electric pulse that spoke in ways that words could not. His questing touch over her scar was a welcome caress, as if the touch of skin against skin could erase the hurts that had created it. She closed her eyes briefly, drawing in breath. " _Why?"_ The ghost of the word skimmed lightly over her upturned face. Opening her eyes, she saw calculation; the determination to understand, the pursed lips of a man who is coldly furious, but does not entirely understand why. He was close- so close, _too_ close. She could smell his skin, the plethora of juxtapositions that composed his nature, his person.

 _"God help me!"_ She whispered. Her vision blurred for a moment, and her fingertips brushed his in an instinctual gesture, _brush away the wet,_ the evidence, the weakness. "Mr. Holmes," she said, standing abruptly, and turned, facing the wall. "What is _that?_ " She pointed at the myriad of clippings and photographs, scraps of paper and pieces of twine that strung their way curiously across the wallpaper, using the time to dash the tears from her eyes. He looked up at her shrewdly for a moment, before raising himself to his full height.

"I will not be so easily put off, Miss Hooper," he said, his voice a dark murmur. She nodded silently, her back turned to him. He sighed, as she silently stayed her shuddering breaths. "But... I will not press the issue, as it so clearly brings you pain. I... I wish you would not go back to him. Miss Hooper, I cannot imagine why- "

"Why do you call me that?" She interrupted suddenly, glancing at him over her shoulder, her eyes deep, and pained, and wanting. His face darkened in the space of a moment, his visage a thunderous cloud that threatened to break. Their gaze held for a second time; and in this moment that lasted an hour, or a second, an agreement was made. Theirs was a futile relationship; a developing friendship, but one that delivered nothing but the dull throbbing ache of longing. No good would come of speaking of it, and so they would not. But some barrier had been broken, and the waters had begun to trickle through. He cleared his throat raggedly, and she looked away; and when they came to themselves, they both faced the web.

"This," he gestured after a moment, "is the case. Whatever information, whatever data I've collected so far, is here."

She stepped forward curiously, her brow furrowing. It was as if, when presented with this puzzle, the trappings of her pain fell away from her. Her face shone, her lips parted, the moisture dried. Shooting a briefly apologetic glance in his direction, she sat abruptly, working the laces of her boots until they were loose. Freeing her feet from their confines, she tucked her shoes tidily beneath the sofa, then stood atop it, as she had seen him do. His face broke into a grin, and his eyes shone as he watched her. He came closer, toying with the tie of his dressing gown. "What do you see?" He could not help but ask curiously.

Her nose was mere inches from the wall, her fingers tracing the twine gently from notes to photograph to clippings and back again. The pieces had been placed carefully, she noted, a scrawled name at the heading of leafs of paper, detailing each of the women, some of them black with notes, some of them less so. "I see…" she began, tapping her finger on a page torn from the _Illustrated Police News._ "…this is Mrs. Mclane, is it not? The American diplomat's wife? _Murder and a Missing Tongue_? Good Lord, but this is distasteful. Still: it appears this is the most prominent of the murders; hardly a shock, it was well publicized. But the others… Sarah Harker… governess. Mary Goodwin… nurse. Emma Morrison… a Pastor, goodness, really? Well it certainly is unusual… and Lydia Dixon, a student of chemistry. All found in their homes, with their tongues… cut out. Whatever could connect them? Why _these_ women?" She asked, turning slightly. He said not a word, but merely stood, leaning against the wall, one brow raised as he stared up at her. She huffed, her lips quirking upward. "As you will, then- I will continue, _unencumbered_ by your genius. So. Let us look into the information you have supplied…" And she fell silent, her lips moving over the words scribbled across the wall, swallowing them, sorting them.

"Mr. Holmes," Molly said abruptly, when a few minutes had passed, "Look here- Mary Goodwin- this footnote, here, added to the obituary. _Miss Goodwin saved the life of four men while serving in the Afghan Wars. The surgeon had been wounded and she, like a savior angel, stepped in, performing the necessary duties when none other could._ It's certainly of note, isn't it?"

"It is," replied Holmes, gazing at her with hawk-like eyes, a smile deepening about his lips.

"And here," she continued, her voice beginning to rise in excitement, "Pastor Emma Morrison. _Pastor_. Doesn't it strike you as something quite odd? Do _you_ know of any Pastors that are women? For I certainly do not. _The leader of a small congregation on the outskirts of London_. So there is clearly no geographical connection between them, other than that they are centered in London. Mrs. Erika Mclane, _a passionate woman, known in her own right for her leadership in the Abolitionist movement in America, and her devotion to Women's Suffrage._ Mr. Holmes, this man- this _murderer_ \- this is not the work of random misfortune! He is- he is killing _accomplished women_ , the sort of women that push our sex forward, the- the sort of woman that I… oh…!" She trailed off, her eyes growing wide.

"Do you know," Holmes said conversationally, his smile grown ten-fold, "You're really _quite_ good. It took the Watson much longer to sort that out,"

"But Mr. Holmes," she continued earnestly, "who on Earth could it be? There are so many… _so many_ men…"

Holmes's countenance blackened, and he sighed, folding himself into the sofa. " _That_ , I am afraid, is where it becomes difficult. If those _imbeciles_ at Scotland Yard had been more forthcoming with their information…"

"Tell me," she interrupted him suddenly, "you never finished, before. _Was Lydia Dixon the only of the six assaulted_?"

"Yes," he replied slowly. "But- he killed them _all._ He knew her, I've deduced as much already. If his sentiment got the better of him- "

Her eyes grew hard, and he immediately regretted his words. "It _does_ matter," she bit out in clipped tones. " _Sentiment_ , as you call it, will betray a man. You say that she knew her killer- that it is obvious, because she hid the ring. But _why_ would she hide her ring, and risk her virtue, if she did not have some history with this man, some… _feeling_ for him? A woman would hardly dash her respectability, her _engagement_ into the dust for some man she hardly knew!" She exclaimed.

"And what, exactly, is your point?" He retorted.

"My _point_ , Mr. Holmes, is that he is coming _closer."_

"To _what_ , exactly?"

And here she deflated somewhat, looking unsure, biting her lip. "I don't know. To some grand goal, to some grand gesture? But just look- just _look_ at the progression of these women. From a governess, to an extraordinary nurse, to the incredible appearance of a woman pastor- to a diplomat's wife, a _suffragette!_ \- to a woman he _knew_ \- "

"Say that again." He demanded suddenly. She stopped, confused, furrowing her brow as she paused to sit beside him.

"Say what?"

" _Say it again!"_ He bellowed, jumping to his feet, his eyes blazing with excitement, his hand darting to the pocket of his dressing gown and flexing wildly. His gaze flitted reflexively to the point just above her shoulder, and she raised her brows, turning her head. Nothing was there, save the web, and the swinging pair of men's boots. "I- ah- well, a, a governess- "

"No, no, not that- the diplomat's wife- what did you say!"

"The diplomat's wife, _a suffragette,_ to a woman he knew- _"_

 _"Ah."_ He said, like a man who has just drunk deeply from a cool glass of water, his eyes closing in satisfaction. For a moment she stared at him in amazement, his face perfectly calm, and yet riddled with excitement. _How_ , she thought _, how is a man made perfectly from such a string of opposing emotions?_ "Next Thursday, Molly- or perhaps sooner- " he said quickly, striding to his room and returning a minute later with his hat and coat. "I will be in touch. See yourself out. And- " for a moment he hesitated, glancing at her nervously. Then, as if not willing to spend a second more than necessary in the flat, he crossed the room swiftly, and seized her by the shoulders. "Please take care of yourself. _"_ His eyes searched hers, and darted again to her cheek, to the proof of her abuse. " _Please,"_ he whispered again, and shook her slightly. His thumb moved, as if of its own accord, and swept gently across her neck, the lightness of his touch an exquisite thing.

And then he was gone, leaving her to stare after him, the warmth of his touch still burning on her skin.

The sound of a door banging shut sounded from below, and she hastened to the window. He appeared a moment later, striding purposefully into the busy street, until he turned a corner, and vanished again from her view.

She watched a moment longer, then narrowed her eyes. There was something… _something_ he was not telling her. The boots, they that had captured his sidelong attention, dangled on the wall, their laces trailing. She took them down, and held them up, examined them from all sides. Apart from their being quite _old_ shoes, she could tell nothing from them. They were certainly not his; no, the wrong size entirely. She bit her lip, and thought harder, replacing the boots. _His gaze… his hand._ When he had glanced at them, his hand had unerringly travelled to the _pocket of his dressing gown_.

The flat was silent- not a soul stirred. No Dr. Watson, and no Mr. Holmes. And so, without allowing herself time to think, she darted past the kitchen, into what could only be his bedroom- and it was so spartan, so at odds with the drawing room, that she paused a moment to take it in. A periodic table decorated the wall, a dresser and bureau neatly lined the room. A desk, a chair- and draped over it, his dressing gown. Without hesitation she took it in her hands- still warm, still smelling of _him-_ and reached into the pocket.

Out came a crumpled note, which she flattened hastily against the desk. On the front it read:

 _S.H._

And on the back,

 _A gift._

She looked up, out into the grey streets. The question buzzed through her mind, tinged with fear: What on _Earth_ had she gotten herself into?

 **~0~0~**

The light was fading as Molly closed the door quietly behind her. All was silent in the flat, save for the small chinking sounds of cooking; of metal against brush, iron pan against spoon. _Tap, tap, tap_ were her shoes against the wood, and she peered into the kitchen. Julie turned at the sound, and smiled at her, continually stirring her pot. She nodded silently to the table, where Soames was slumped, snoring, his flask open and tipped sideways, a last pearl of liquor clinging to its rim. They grinned at each other, a silent communication of glee. It had been easy enough, in the end, to slip a measure of the sleeping tonic into the flask. It hardly seemed necessary at all, she mused as she left the kitchen; Soames was seldom seen in a wakeful state. Really, what was the point of him, if he was so desperately easy to circumvent?

Satisfied that she had not been missed, she sighed, trailing her fingers against the wall as she wended her slow way towards her room. Past the small library, past the locked door that was Mr. Brook's private office. As she came to it, she pushed gently at it; partly out of habit, partly out of a secret desire to see his shocked and wrathful expression.

It swung open on oiled hinges. A small chink of wavering light, smooth and beckoning, eased out over the floorboards, glowing against the semidarkness of the hall. There was no sound.

"Mr. Brook?" She asked in a small voice, then cleared it, rapping her knuckles firmly against the door. It pushed open further. "Richard?" Laying her hand flat to the wood, she pushed- and entered. He was not there. It was a simple room; a window facing out onto the street below, a desk upon which sat a low-burning lamp. Shelves lined the walls, and an old, musty wardrobe, its door hanging slightly ajar. Books sat upon the shelves, in all their academic glory. _Geometry of Numbers,_ read the spines in faded gold lettering. _Quantitative Methods._ A fat stack of paper, bound with string, covered in mathematical formulae. He had mentioned, what felt to her like years ago, that he worked in maths. Had she really not given a second thought to his profession, to his affairs, in all this time? No. For it bore no relevance to her; she harbored no interest in his comings, and goings, save how his detested presence affected _her_. He must be a professor, then; or a teacher of some sort. She could not think of what other capacity his work could be used in, and frankly did not care to continue the subject. Wandering to his desk, she sat carefully in his rigid chair, and leaned forward, clasping her hands together atop the old wood. _If I were Mr. Brook_ , she mused, _where would I keep my most necessary things?_ A pen and inkwell stood on the tabletop, and it transpired that fresh paper was to be found in the left-hand drawer. An old abacus stood sentinel in another drawer, and in the third was a torn page of an album, thrust face-down into the farthest corner.

She lifted the page gently from the drawer, and could not help but smile as she flipped it over. For on it was pasted a photograph, where three children stood, their faces severe, their clothing rigid. Two boys, and one girl; one clearly Mr. Brook at, perhaps, seven years of age. The little girl stood close to him, the back of her hand touching his, a tiny, knowing smile playing about her little lips, as if she kept some great secret from the rest of us. Her hair curled about her face, tied back with ribbon. Mr. Brook- Richard- stood as if uncomfortable and entranced all at once, his eyes wide, his lips parted, caught in an expression of eternal surprise. His brows were the same, she noted, his ears, his nose- all belonged to Mr. Brook. But his eyes… his eyes lacked the emptiness that now forged their depths.

The boy next to him was all sharp angles; bony elbows and knobbly knees. His hair was an unruly mess, and he scowled darkly, his slanted eyes cast downward, his hands shoved deeply into his pockets, his attitude uncomfortable, and slouched. He stood apart from the others; a child unbound, unwanted, a miserable youth, static in the progress of time. There was something about him, that _face_ … she flipped the page back over. There, written in faded and smudged ink, was the label: _Playmates: Eurus, Jim, and S-_ She furrowed her brow; the last name had faded past legibility, as if a thumb had pushed it away, over, and over, and over. Nothing but the faint _S_ now remained of the name- but that was not what had caught her attention; no. _Jim?_ Perhaps it was the other boy's name, but then again, why _S?_ Surely it was Mr. Brook, there, in the photograph? Or perhaps he had a brother, a cousin? Or simply a middle name, a child's name? The list, she realized, of things she did not know of her husband was long, and would grow even longer, if she did not seek to remedy the fact.

 _"Julie!"_

Her blood froze in her veins. _Him_ , it was him, he had returned and she had not heard- no- he had been here all along, the lamp, _the lamp_ , burning to the quick, how could she have been so foolish-! She dropped the page back into the drawer, and slammed it shut, standing hastily.

"Yes, Mr. Brook?" Came Julie's voice, and she could imagine her, her head poking from the kitchen door, her hands wiping anxiously at her apron.

"Where is Mrs. Brook?"

"In- in her room, I should think, Sir."

"She was not there, I have just looked."

"Perhaps she was in the- the lavatory, Sir?"

Mr. Brook grunted; the quaver in Julie's voice was enough to give her nerves away, surely, to set him on edge, onto the scent. The clap of his shoes came down the hallway- too close, _too close!_ But there was no sound of a heavy step upon the stair- no. He came closer, pausing at the library- there was no way for her to make her escape now. Cold sweat broke out upon her brow, her heart leapt- _the wardrobe_. Its door slightly ajar, an open invitation, a sign. She darted to it, slipping inside, folding herself into the gloom of the greatcoat that hung within.

The steps stopped. She could not see the door opening farther, but knew through the pause in sound that he stood within, surveying the empty room. Had she left anything amiss? Dear God, but he knew, _he knew_ , and though he had not expressly forbidden it, she knew the room was his own; off limits, forbidden. Why else was it kept locked? The steps sounded again- to his desk, the opening and closing of a drawer, the shuffle of paper, the sharp squeak of a pen. She could not see but for a thin sliver of floor; a corner of his shadow, thrown clear by the lamp. Her breaths came heavy and fast; she was sure he could hear them, hear _her-_ she clapped a hand to her mouth. But in that quick movement her elbow knocked at the greatcoat, and the hanger gave an angry squeak of protest.

The pen ceased it's progress across paper. His shadow rose; a muddled thing, headless and blind, its unseeing gaze pointed at the wardrobe. Her fear was very nearly blinding- but still she did not move. The beating of her heart in her breast was a wild thing; erratic, painful. But the indistinct head bowed, and the pen finished its quick work. There was the sound of folding paper, of paper against cloth; the sudden descent into darkness as the lamp was blown out. Footsteps- closer, then away- the closing door. _Clap, clap_ , his boots upon the stair.

She nearly sobbed with relief, releasing her hand finally from her mouth. Tears stung at her eyes, and she took great, shuddering gasps, muffled by the coat- the _coat-_

The greatcoat _stank_. She paused, fingering it, and then buried her nose deep into its folds. Sharply she pulled back- it smelled of smoke, deep and acrid; it smelled of blood, the sharp tang she remembered so well from when she had once helped Grace kill the chickens. The smell of burnt feathers, burnt flesh- it stank of stale sweat, and adrenaline, and _fear._

Could fear smell, she wondered? What in God's name was this evil business? _No_ \- she was afraid, and creating her own phantoms to haunt her in this dark hell. She pushed at the wardrobe door, swiping at her watery eyes, stifling a cough. Crossing to the door, she held her breath, listening. _Nothing_. Julie, clattering in the kitchen. Easing the door open, she slipped out, scurried up the stairs, and threw herself into the imagined sanctuary of her own room.

She sat, with trembling fingers pulling at the laces of her boots, her breaths evening slowly. And a thought slipped into her mind, pale as a passing ghost:

 _Why had he not locked the door?_


	19. The Quiet Hour

**A/N: Phew! I'm back. Exactly a month since the last post! A few things:**

 **1\. It might do you well to refresh _Scandal in Bohemia/Belgravia_ \- won't say why, but be familiar with it so this will make sense!**

 **2\. Always massive thanks to those of you who are following and have commented! I love to hear your thoughts. And a special thanks to likingthistoomuch, for being amazing and a wonderful sounding board! You are the best!**

 **3\. A little homage to Philip Pullman... couldn't resist! La Belle Sauvage belongs to him. Ok, onwards! Enjoy, and tell me what you think! :)**

 **XIX. The Quiet Hour**

 _La Belle Sauvage_ was not a pub of ill repute, and yet neither was it one of particularly glowing praise. The name had been worked across the swinging sign in worn gold lettering. And yet, the _v_ had been painted over with a red _s,_ so that it now read _La Belle Sausage._ Yes; it was that sort of pub, frequented by those loyal patrons who found its doors ever open and welcome through the most foul of weather and darkest of times.

It was here that Dr. Watson was to be found, elbow deep in his fourth or fifth whiskey. "'S her fault," he muttered to himself, and let his fingers slide along the cool glass, swirling the liquid as gently as his motor functions would allow him. The scotch sloshed upon his coat sleeve, and he set the glass down heavily, sighing as he peered blearily at the damage. He considered for the barest fraction of a second the option of lapping the spilled drink from his sleeve, but hastily pushed the idea away, disgusted at the mere appearance of the thought. No, scotch was meant to be had from a glass, quality be damned. A blast of cold air shot through the pub, creeping and poking down the back of his collar. Watson shivered, and grasped the glass again, throwing it back into his throat. The drink warmed him, and in his semi-lucid state, he was grateful for it.

"Wot can I get ye?" The bartender asked half-heartedly, shuffling over in his direction.

"Mm- 'nother scotch, should do the trick," Watson mumbled, turning the glass over with two fingers. "'S empty," he explained knowledgeably.

"I should think that is _quite_ enough," said a voice, and a hand took the glass from his own and placed it firmly upon the bar. "Nothing for him, thank you. I will settle the bill now." Said Holmes crisply, slapping a note upon the table. He glanced down at Watson, who sat with moustache quivering, looking morosely up at him. "For God's sake!" Holmes barked, throwing down his cap irritably, "I gave you warning of her insidious ways _precisely_ to avoid this mess! And now you've gone and- predictably, I must admit- found solace in a glass. Really, Wat- "

"You wore the funny hat, eh, old boy?" Watson broke in, his head wobbling precariously and his eyes sliding in and out of focus as he guffawed. "I say, Ho- Holmes- it's really quite striking. Why… why's it got two sides, eh?"

Holmes stared at him unbelievingly for the space of a moment, as if he had traded his head for a pumpkin which happened to have a particularly lovely singing voice. "John," he began very carefully, very patiently, with only the slightest hint of agitation in his low voice. "I have been to every pub in a brief radius of that hideous tea shop you insist on frequenting with your innumerable _lady friends_. Why, _why_ on Earth would you return to this miserable old dung-heap?"

"Was the first," mumbled Watson into his empty glass.

"…Ah," Replied Holmes after a moment.

"Sentiment." Watson sighed, scrubbing at his face with his hands. "Was the first place we- "

"Sentiment, yes, obviously. The first place you spent any time with her. Really, Watson, bringing a _lady_ to such a godforsaken place? Bit uncouth, isn't it? And she's gone and cut the strings loose before you'd a chance to do it yourself. I see. What a charming young woman."

"Good... good deduction, really... really good. Yes. She's not- she's not a normal type, Holmes, not a- a _lady_ persay, Holmes- Sherlock- why are you… why are you here?"

Holmes made a sound in the back of his throat, of discontentment, or sheer, anxious irritability. "It appears I am too late for a simple _interview_... well then, there's nothing to be done about it. I am here because I wish to speak to Eugevenia, or Francine, or whatever her name is."

"I... what?"

"Your _Lady,_ John, or ex-lady, your- that suffragette, you imbecile, the one who's just clearly excised your heart from your chest, for whatever ungodly reason you chose to bestow it upon her in the first place! The _Suffragette!"_

Watson looked at him for one astonished moment, before slowly shaking his head. "No... no. No, Holmes, we've just ended it, _she_ just- just ended it- I must maintain at least the- the bare _minimum_ of de- dec… decorum, of self-respect- "

"Because you're clearly doing so now."

Watson fixed him with a glare, and drew himself up as best as he was able. "I'll have you know," he began, unfurling an index finger slowly and prodding Holmes with it in the middle of his chest, "that I hold Margot in the hi- _highest_ of standards, as she di- did me. Myself. Me?"

"Watson," began Holmes, folding his gloved hands upon his knee, "I informed you that the girl in question was an excellent liar, did I not?"

"Well- yes, I suppose you did- "

"And she proceeded to give you no real reason as to ending it, did she?"

"No- no, by Jove, she did not!" Exclaimed Watson with sudden spirit. "Though I suspect- "

"What do you suspect?" Prompted Holmes, one brow raised in growing enthusiasm.

"- I suspect she was seeing another!" Watson burst out, his brow darkening in anger. "The absolute _nerve-"_

"Yes, yes! Excellent. Really quite tragic. Now: Watson, you must take me to her."

"No!" Exclaimed Watson in a voice so outraged that the heads of the other patrons all turned, their ears pricked for a good fight. He deflated immediately, his shoulders drooping somewhat as he hissed, " _What for?"_

 _"_ I need to speak to her, to ask some questions- oh come now, what do you _think?_ John, that ninny of a girl you have associated yourself with is in very real danger and I, for one, will not be party to a murder that might this very night be stopped!"

 **~0~0~**

Together they stumbled along the cobbled streets, the greying light casting long shadows at their backs. The cold bit frightfully into their coats, and where Holmes stood with dignity, loftily ignoring the frigid chill, Watson was, in his current state, aware of the throbbing redness of his nose, and the way it dripped as he snuffled fruitlessly. Holmes gripped him firmly by the elbow as he wove and dipped on the sloping pavement, his knees buckling beneath him as he shouted in indignant protest. Because he was _perfectly alright, thank you very much- in no need, none at all, of any sort of assistance._

"For God's sake," Holmes muttered finally, as Watson heaved the liquid contents of his stomach into a back street, "pull yourself together! You smell abominable- here, take my handkerchief." He sniffed deeply, and wrinkled his nose. "You might be passable as a resident of this… _alley_ in this state, but you could hardly pass for genteel company at the moment. Might I remind you that Miss- whatever is her last name?"

"Hawthorne," wheezed Watson.

"- Miss _Hawthorne's_ safety is at stake! We are in earnest, here- now! Look lively, there's a good fellow!"

"But Holmes," Watson moaned plaintively, mopping his mouth with the handkerchief, "you do not, _cannot_ understand! I cannot see her _now_ , not like this! She'd throw me out!"

"You needn't come up then," Replied Holmes briskly, "but I may need your assistance, so linger outside- "

"Nonsense! It's bloody freezing, I will do no such thing."

Holmes raised an eyebrow at this petulant outburst, and released the arm which had been propping his friend upright. Watson stumbled, his hand scrabbling for purchase against the wall with a muted curse. "Have a care with your language, Watson, we are to speak to a lady, no matter how irritating a specimen she might be. Now, look here, we are only a street away! We shall be there in no time, barring any further nuisance on your end. Come _along,_ John!"

They bumbled finally across the street, dodging one too many carriages before Watson pointed out the number of the house in question. The bell clamored as Holmes pulled at it once, twice. They stood on the stoop, shivering in the bracing February wind, watching the lamp-lighter slowly illuminate the street. There was no noise from within, and presently Holmes rang again, becoming increasingly agitated, his eyes darting across the street and back, and up to the third story window. A lamp had been lit, burning with a somber glow through the glass. "Does she have a housekeeper? A flat-mate? Servants of any sort?"

"No," replied Watson, then amended, "Well- a flat-mate, but I believe she is not there often- she is quite the wild spirit, you know, never one for following the beaten path- "

Holmes sighed irritably. "Wherever did you _find_ this woman?"

"She's quite extraordinary- "

"Unimportant. What _is_ important is getting into that flat, and having a good poke around before she returns. A flat is a veritable portrait; whereas all a _person_ will do, given the chance, is lie. Both useful, but why have just the one if you can have both?" While the words slipped from his tongue, Holmes had produced from the innards of his coat a neatly wrapped cloth, which he unrolled on the frozen front step of the building. Selecting a few tools quickly, he stood upright, his eyes darting to all sides. " _Keep watch,"_ he hissed to Watson. And with that he threaded a shining silver instrument into the key hole, and with a few deft, punctuated movements, the lock sprang free, and the tools had disappeared into the depths of folded cloth. With a soft _snick_ he pushed the door open, and the two men stepped quickly inside, shutting away the accusing glare of the street lamp. "Third landing?" Holmes whispered, and with a sharp nod from his partner in crime, he bounded up the stairs, Watson following reluctantly behind him.

With scarcely a hitch to his breath, Holmes landed, cat-like, upon the third landing. The door to the flat lay immediately in front of him. Composing himself, he lifted his hand firmly to knock- but the door was ajar. Just a sliver; just enough to show the arrogance, the carelessness of the last person to pass through it. His breath caught as he stared at it, his eyes narrowed.

Though he had become accustomed to the nature of his profession- the necessity of descending into the seedy underbelly of London's common, and uncommon, criminal minds- he never took pleasure in a case of obvious violence. But he knew, with an instinct finely honed over time, what waited for them upon the other side of that dirty, nondescript door. The cold fingers of dread plucked at him, the ghost of old doubts and cases solved too late. His face was still as Watson wheezed up the final stair, clutching at the bannister like a man that is not in the prime of his health. "John," he said slowly, and took him by the shoulder, squeezing once. "… steel yourself." And with that he took the plunge, through the door, into the darkened flat.

There was nothing in the cramped sitting room (two teacups, two plates, a scattering of crumbs)- nothing in the tiny kitchen (an abandoned kettle, sitting neatly on the hob). The air was close with the thickness of a recently snuffed candle's smoke. But as he rounded the corner into the next room, he was greeted by the amber gleam of an oil lamp, guttering with the thin draft of the open door. And upon the floor, her limbs sprawled at odd and uneven angles, lay Margot, Miss Hawthorne, _the Suffragette._ He stared at her shrewdly, his hand against the doorframe as his eyes made quick work of the scene. A candle had been left vigil by her body, a mess of melted wax burned down to the quick in the brass holder. He moved forward swiftly, and touched the wax: still warm. Judging by the splattering left upon the holder, the killer could not have been gone more than an hour or two. No time to waste on _what ifs,_ no time to linger over very spilt milk.

A sudden sound had him whirling, in time to meet Watson's eyes, to see his face crumple in dismay. He groaned, deep in the back of his throat. " _Margot…"_ and it was not despair, but horrified nausea, the immediate impulse to disbelieve. "Oh my God." He said simply, and crumpled against the wall as his knees buckled beneath him. "Holmes- Sherlock- I only just saw her, I swear it- not two hours have passed- dear Lord- "

"Breathe, John," said Holmes, crouching in front of him- for his breath was coming in ever quicker, shorter gasps, his face white and clammy as he gazed past Holmes's shoulder. "You are panicking: _breathe."_

 _"Her face,"_ Watson choked, his eyes wide and unblinking. Holmes turned to glance behind him- and froze, as his breath caught in his throat. For it was not Margot lying there, but _Molly,_ slight, slim and beautiful, her neck bare and peppered with bruises, the front of her dress ripped. Her large, unseeing eyes, her thin mouth, her fair skin- all were soaked with the deep red of blood, as it seeped slowly, languorously, from between her lips, drawn wide into a terrible maw.

 _"No,"_ he whispered, and it was his turn to sink to the ground, lost in his own thoughts. " _No,"_ because it _could_ not be her, and yes; yes, it was not her. It was not her, not Molly Hooper but _Margot Hawthorne_ , suffragette and until recently, partner of Dr. John Watson. _Molly was not here._ He shook his head slightly, clearing his mind, snapping to attention- but with a garbled cry he launched himself upright, clutching at the wall. "No!" He shrieked, because John now knelt by Margot's side, running a trembling hand over her shredded sleeves, her hair, coppery and heavy with dark blood, the edge of her earlobe. He thumbed her eyes closed, and tugged as one half-asleep at his outer-coat, intending to cover her body. _"Oh,"_ moaned Watson _,_ "Oh, I didn't mean to marry her, but I cared- she was- Margot- ". And he took her hand in his own, and kissed it.

"John, _no_!" Holmes shouted again, and fell to his knees beside his friend, staying his shaking hands, pulling the coat back onto his shoulders and gripping him tightly. He glanced again at the body: _not Molly._ "Look at me. Watson. _John_. Look at me. There's no helping her now, you mustn't touch her- the _evidence_ , John, the evidence, I must examine her- "

"No _,_ devil take you, _no!"_ Roared Watson, struggling wildly to his feet. "What do you care, it's clearly _his_ work, even a fool like myself can see it! She was mine, Holmes, _mine,_ at least for a little while- I will not have you treat her as- as another of your experiments, you do not have the right, you- you _automaton!_ Just because you do not have the _emotional capacity_ to understand that, understand _love_ in any of its forms- I cannot see her this way, and neither will you!" He gasped, his eyes wild.

Holmes reeled back at the venom in Watson's voice, a fleeting flash of the wounded beast surfacing in his eyes before they shuttered and turned cold, calculating. "John, you must go. Now. Get Lestrade, get the whole _bloody_ Yard if they must. Send for him, and- send a boy to stand watch at Miss Hooper's home."

"But Margot- " began Watson, panicking.

"Margot is _dead."_ Replied Holmes in a brittle voice. "There is nothing she can do now, and I _must_ examine her, John. You should not be here. You should not see this. Now _go."_

Watson stumbled backwards, his eyes wide as he groped at the doorframe, his fingers white and trembling. But he left, with faltering steps, the clatter of his boots frail against the hard wood of the stairs. Holmes narrowed his eyes after his friend, sending him all the unsettled strength he could muster, all the goodwill that might keep him safe and on his feet for the duration of his errand. " _Godspeed,"_ he muttered, and mopped quickly with his handkerchief at the cold sweat that stood out upon his brow before turning to the task at hand.

From his coat he nimbly pulled his magnifying lens: yes, the prints along her neck, the same fingers had done quick, lethal work on both these women. The tears along the hem of her dress, the scratches that criss-crossed her neck, the dried blood under the nails of her right hand- it was plain that she had struggled. And again, the presence of teacups, and Watson's insistence that Miss Hawthorne had left him for another: the man was clearly a charmer. Margot, like the unfortunate Miss Dixon before her, knew her killer. The blood coating her cheek and lips was still just scarcely warm; fresh, and only beginning to crust. He had been here, not so very long ago- and if Watson had not been in such a way, if Watson had not been so _damnably_ stubborn- it did not matter. Time waited for no corners of her lips were torn, as if forced open in a frenzy of bloodlust; of urgency, and need. He leaned closer, tenderly prizing her slack lips further apart. There was no tongue, as he had expected- but _something_ had been forced deep into her mouth. Soaked in heavy blood, it lay atop the clean-clipped stump of her tongue: a crumpled leaf of paper.

In that moment he felt as if his heart stopped entirely: a shiver coursed throughout his body, leaving the rancid tang of fear such as he had never known to seep from his pores. Gingerly he plucked the paper from her mouth, taking in its stock, and unwillingness to be bent at all. Slowly, deliberately, he smoothed it against the carpeted floor.

And the eyes of _The Woman_ smiled back at him, keen and sultry and smeared in dark, thick blood. Irene Adler peered up at him, her lips the most vivid red, pressed together, with just the hint of a smile.

 **~0~0~**

Holmes pounded up the stairs to 221B, his heart leaping in his throat. He could not think, could barely see for the alarm that clouded his senses. Irrationally, illogically, panic flooded through him. _How_ could that photograph have appeared? He had kept it, at his own behest, though both Miss Adler and the King had coveted it. No; it was his own, his memento, his reminder of _her_ , of The Woman, and all that went along with that case, the _Scandal in Bohemia._ Could she have taken it? No, impossible. Could it be gone? Was it a copy? _Impossible…_

Holmes burst through the door, racing through the kitchen to his bedroom, toppling a chair in the process. He paused, his breath surging wildly. _Had anything been touched?_ No, no, _nothing_ \- but how would he know? Mrs. Hudson tidied up on an incessantly annoying basis- ah, but dust! Dust was eloquent, dust was _irreplaceable_ save through the battered movements of time. And there- _there_ the pattern had been broken, high on the edge of the bookcase, where the false back was tucked away, covered by those books that were scarcely touched. The line of broken dust was languorous as he examined it, covered over by the fainter, newer tracking of floating particles. It swerved and dipped, tracing a curlicue, and ended in an _X_ at the far end of the shelf. How, _how_ had he not noticed such an obvious sign? Simple; these books were scarcely touched, unwanted, _unnecessary_ save for the clutter that hid away a secret. He growled, a deep utterance born from a frenzy of fear and disbelief as he reached up and flung the books to the floor. They slammed down with a crash, landing on their spines, their faces, onto bent and mangled pages as he tore at the false back of the bookcase. His hand groped, and stopped. For where there had once lain a single, pristine photograph, there was now soft, creamy paper. He withdrew it slowly, and held it before him; a page torn from a book, slightly wrinkled, and delicate. Bracketed in fine, black ink, were the words,

 _All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players. Each have their exits, and their entrances, and one man in his time plays many parts._

His legs, those trusted appendages, gave way beneath him, and he found himself upon the floor, his head flung back against the bed post. _Who? Who the devil-_

 _Ah._

His mind fired; darted onwards to a knowledge that he did not yet fully understand. His long fingers, seemingly of their own accord, found their clever way, slowly, restlessly, to his waistcoat pocket. And that cursed little object, that _vegsívir,_ trembled beneath his touch, and grew warm against the palm of his hand.

 **~0~0~**

The night had waned into the small hours of the morning when at last Watson stumbled into the flat, cold and weary unto death. He sighed, laboriously shrugging out of his coat and tossing it to the rack without so much as a second glance. Collapsing into his armchair, his breath heaved from his body in a great gust of air as he closed his eyes. A shudder coursed through him, and the chill felt suddenly bone deep and aching. It was not only the biting cold of winter, but the shock of the day that ground into him with the force of a heavy, dull instrument, knocking irrevocably against the innards of his skull. The embers in the grate smoldered sullenly, and he stood, finally, with a groan, and stoked the fire to greater life. Out of the corner of his eye, a shadow shifted in the chair opposite, a lurching presence that made no sound. He stiffened, and fervent resolve leapt within his breast. He waited. After a moment, the shadow moved again; the rustle of fabric against fabric rent the air- and Watson whirled, poker still in hand as he brandished it wildly at the figure. "Stand, you fiend!" He cried, his senses all but leaving him as the familiar berserker of wars past roared into life, alert and thirsty for vengeance.

"Put down your weapon, Watson, I am in need of both my eyes at present," spoke the figure tiredly. The poker clattered to the floor, and Watson gasped, falling back into his chair.

"Good God, Holmes- you nearly offed me with that- that display! Why ever didn't you say anything? Do you mean to tell me you've been here all this time?" He exclaimed, retrieving his filthy handkerchief from his pocket and mopping furiously at his brow.

"I've been thinking." Holmes snapped waspishly, and settled deeper into his chair, pulling his dressing gown more firmly about himself.

They settled into an uneasy silence, as the fire gradually found new life. The flames grew, and licked lazily at their feet through the confines of the grate. Neither man looked upon the other, but through the hazy smoke each found their own thoughts, and were silent. The night grew deep about them, and presently that quiet hour came, in which all manner of creatures and will o' the wisps found their way out upon the silky moor. The streets of London, too, were touched with moonlight- but no imps or faerie creatures dwelt on those cold, man-made corners; no. A faerie, you see, is a queer thing: you will never predict its odd little mind, or if it will do you a good turn, or an ill one. But a human: ah. The manipulation of fate, and of the mind of a man, is a much stranger thing. And so in London there were men that lurked with more sinister a purpose, warped and twisted through the bitter life that bore them. Each soul that walked those streets fought against the binds of their society, and cried for freedom- be it through the perverted exultation of delivering death to another being, or simply the power to live, and love, unhindered.

At length, when the darkness had deepened into the most sultry of blacks, Watson took breath. "Have you ever wondered," he said in a low voice, "how very strange it is that we live at all?"

Holmes snorted, and shifted for the first time in the better of an hour. "I have, Watson. It does not make much sense in the grand scheme of things, does it? Why should you live, and Miss Hawthorne die? It does not seem quite fair. Is there a reason to any of it, _could_ there be a reason? But," he sighed, "in the end, life is not fair."

"It is not," agreed Watson. They lapsed again into silence. Each man pondered his mortality, and basked in the flimsy shadows the ghosts of the departed had cast. "Why did she die, Holmes?" He asked, tearing through the silence with such plaintiveness, such desperation, that the bleakness of his thoughts seemed to swallow up the room entirely. "Surely you… you, of all people, Holmes, must see some pattern to these crimes, an end to this terrible madness?"

"I do," murmured Holmes into the flickering light.

Watson leaned forward after a moment, peering through the gloom into the face of his friend. "You do?"

"I do." Holmes agreed. "I believe, Watson… I am _beginning_ to believe, that this is an endgame; a personal affair, with a hellish bent. Those women… they served only to prove a gruesome point."

"A point? What point?"

Holmes sighed deeply. "That, unfortunately, has not quite been made clear to me."

"Then whatever do you mean? Holmes, do you know who this madman… this _murderer_ is?"

"I am beginning to think… Ah, but the matter is nebulous, Watson- vague, and yet not so- I have said it before!"

"But what is it that you know? Speak, man, do not leave me in the dark, not after… this!" Watson exclaimed, gesturing helplessly with open hands.

"He left this," Holmes said consideringly, pulling the crumpled photograph from the pocket of his dressing gown and handing it to over. Watson studied it a moment, his visage wrinkled in disgust.

"Blood," he said. "Where…?"

"In her mouth." Replied Holmes heavily.

Watson's hand shook in the dim light, as he fought the stinging bile from crawling up his throat once again. "Oh God…" he croaked, his eyes falling shut.

"Who do you see?" Prompted Holmes urgently. "Look, John: _who do you see?"_

Watson opened his eyes, determinedly fixing them on the face in the photograph. "Why," he said, after forcing some semblance of control upon himself, "that's… that's Irene Adler, isn't it? Sherlock… Sherlock, this is the photograph, the photograph you locked away after that whole scandal, that case! Isn't it? But how could it be? There was only the one made, and you kept it hidden away- I have not seen it these many months!"

"He stole it," complained Holmes, "from under my very nose, I am afraid."

"But what on Earth for?" Watson exclaimed in confusion.

"It is possible that he is giving us a hint... a _clue,_ as it were. First the boots, now the photograph...

If nothing else, he is proving to me that he is clever. _Very_ clever, and wishes to gain my attention. He knows of the murder of Caleb Coulter, from all those years ago- and moreover knows that I was interested in the affair, even at that young age, and has _sent me his boots_. However could he come upon them, if he was not, himself, Caleb Coulter's killer? The boots were never found, remember that. Ah, but there's more: he is one that dabbles in blackmail- for what does this photograph signify, other than blackmail? We have descended into the lair of a different sort of criminal: one whose ultimate goal, I fear- though I cannot be certain- is in tormenting me."

"Is that... Holmes, was that why she.. died? Margot?"

Holmes nodded gravely, looking determinedly into the fire as he continued. "I fear he is working his way up some horrible sort of _pecking order._ All these past victims... they were a rehearsal of sorts. Look at the evidence he has left us: a governess, a woman who teaches the children of wealthy parents, and has sent more than one girl off to a mildly scandalous career. A nurse who saved the lives of many men by stepping in and taking matters into her own hands. A _Pastor_ … need I say more? A highly influential, diplomatic woman; a student in chemistry. Molly saw it, saw the pattern- surely you do as well?"

"I could hazard a guess- "

"We are looking," Holmes interrupted, "for a man who _hates women._ All that they stand for, all that they may fight for, and accomplish. In short: our murderer is a man who has been wronged by a woman, and seeks to remedy this fact in the most permanent way he is able."

The fire twitched and moaned, begging for sustenance. Holmes rose laboriously, like a man who has sustained many hurts and has only just begun to become aware of them, and threw a log onto the waning flames.

"Why…" Watson began, and then paused, and shivered, glancing into the deepening corners of the room, as if all manner of evil intentions lurked within. "What has this to do with you, Holmes?" He said, in a hushed voice. Holmes laughed humorlessly, and sat again, his hands pressed together under his drawn lips.

"It has nothing to do with me," He replied. "It is simply a man driven mad by the ill hand life has dealt him, who revels in death and, knowing of my reputation, seeks to find a more interesting class of adversary. He is clever; clever enough to draw me out, to follow my every move for… oh, since childhood, I suspect."

Watson furrowed his brow, his lips moving as he worked through what had just been said. "But surely…" he began slowly, then glanced up. "No, that makes no sense, Holmes- not in the slightest!"

Holmes' lips quirked in a lopsided smirk. "Good, good- you see how very shallow that ruse is. But it is what our friends at Scotland Yard believe- if they have gotten _that_ far, which I am certain they have not. No. No, I am… quite positive, in fact, that this murderer not only despises a certain sort of women, but seeks now to inflict pain upon myself, personally. Margot… Margot was a perfect victim. A strong woman, a suffragette- but easily influenced, in the end. The cream on the cake? She was connected to _you_ , John. You, my… my dearest, and closest, friend. If you suffer, then I, in turn, suffer- and he _knows_ this. The next victim, I fear, is Irene Adler. He knows the nature of our relationship. He knows that she is… an important fixture in my life."

"Then surely we must protect her!" Cried Watson in alarm.

"Indeed, we must." Agreed Holmes. "But she is not in London. See here- " and he bent to collect a newspaper propped against the chair, and threw it across to Watson, who caught it neatly. "Turn to the back- to the advertisements. She is in Paris at the moment- but will be singing at Covent Garden in the next week, as the lead in _Orfeo ed Euridice._ It's really quite fitting, truth be told- a marvelous contralto like her, an entirely entrancing woman, in a pants role. The irony is, in this case, superb."

"We must alert her as to the danger!" Watson murmured, scanning the advertisement carefully.

Holmes nodded curtly. "I have sent a telegram to arrange a meeting at her earliest disposal, and assured her of the urgency of the matter. She is not stupid; she will understand the nature of our discussion."

"But, Holmes," Watson said after considering for a moment, "I am under the very distinctest of impressions that there is something _you are not telling me._ And I, of _all_ people, deserve the truth! This is no slight matter!"

The detective sighed in acquiescence, and settled back into his chair. "You do, as ever, speak the truth. Very well. Do you recall that evening that we spent quite similarly to this, settled here in front of the hearth? I believe you dragged out of me a touch of my personal history," he quipped humorlessly.

Watson winced, but nodded. "I do."

"Well, then, you must have had your suspicions as well. _Jim Moriarty_ , my dear Watson. Who else could it be, but Jim Moriarty, the murderer of my sister? He has not done enough, you see, and has quite possibly spent his youth on gaining enough leverage to finally confront me. It is, in the end, simple enough. Eurus, drowned in the Reichenbach, in that stream, in the forested wilds of my family home… my sins have come at last home to roost, you see."

"And somehow I am not in the least surprised to see that you are not shocked at all by the re-appearance of a childhood nemesis," Watson commented wryly.

"In truth, I have expected this for a long time," Holmes agreed. "We need now only find him, and put an end to this gruesome business."

"London is a large place, Holmes- have you any idea at all how to track him down?" Holmes's face twisted in an ugly grimace as he stared into the fire.

"I've not been idle, Watson," he retorted petulantly, then sighed heavily. "But he is a sly one, that _dog,_ and all hints of his whereabouts have led to nothing but dead ends. The ink he used, the heavy paper- even that abhorrent page of Shakespeare he left in place of the photograph… here it is, by the way, help yourself." And he tossed the page across the space between them, where it fluttered gently to the floor. Watson grunted irritably, and stooped to pick it up, squinting at the page.

"The _Tempest?"_ He asked after a moment.

" _As You Like It,_ you nitwit. For a supposedly educated man, you are grossly under-fed in the great literary works. He's becoming cocky, the idiot! Informing me of my impending demise through the garrulous means of a bit of Shakespeare. And my ending, my _exit_? Accomplished by executing- quite literally, I take it- those that he takes offense to, as well as to those whom I hold dear, in one fell swoop. Neat, isn't it?"

"Quite," grumbled Watson, still studying the page.

"Ah, but don't you see, Watson- he has quite shown his hand! We have caught him in the quick! We have at our disposal that most incongruous of his vices: the power of vanity, that pathetic weakness of pathetic individuals. He's given us all the pieces of the puzzle, I've quite solved it- and now it is simply a matter of keeping Miss Adler safe, and tracing his whereabouts."

"But what of Miss Hooper?" Asked Watson, glancing up from the page. Holme snorted, pinching his lips closed.

"What of her? She's not my wife, I hardly know her. Moriarty can't possibly be interested in a young woman trapped in a bad marriage. No; she is hardly of consequence."

There was a moment of silence, broken only by the crackling of the flames. After a moment, Holmes glanced up, to find Watson staring at him with such furious intensity that he raised his brows in surprise. "Good Heavens, Watson, you look as if you're fit to burst. Perhaps some brandy- "

"Do not pretend." Interrupted Watson, his voice hard and steely. "Do not pretend for a _moment_ , Holmes, that you do not care for that woman- don't lie to _me._ She deserves better than that from you, derelict husband or no. Archie is, at this very moment, cultivating frostbite to watch over her flat, _on your orders._ And you _dare_ to tell me that she is _of no consequence?_ "

Holmes shrugged, glancing away uneasily. "Perhaps he has not noticed her."

Watson barked out a laugh, and pushed himself to his feet. "Today I lost someone who was, for some time, very dear to me. I may not have loved her, but I cared for her. I would not wish that death on any soul. Molly Hooper's life may mean nothing to you, Holmes, but it means something to _me_ , and not only out of basic, common decency. I commend your actions in sending the boy to watch over the house- and Adler is clearly the next target, so perhaps Miss Hooper is safe tonight. But will she be safe tomorrow, or the next month? What happens if we cannot protect Miss Adler, and she ends up dead, like the rest? What then, Holmes? Do we hope, and pretend that this psychotic man has _failed to notice her?_ I won't, that's for certain. And I am confident that you will do everything in your power to protect Miss Hooper as well because _you love her._ Admit it, or don't: it's an impossible situation. But I'll be _damned_ if you put that girl in danger simply because you're too proud to admit you care for her. I'm going to bed. Goodnight."

And with his mustache quivering, and his eyes blazing, Watson squared his shoulders, and strode from the room in quickstep. Holmes stared after him, his eyes narrowed, his mouth turned downwards.

The fire waned. The creaking timbers of 221 Baker Street moaned about him, speaking in the strange whispering voice of an old house that has seen, and knows, much.

Presently Sherlock Holmes stood, and collected his greatcoat, hat, and gloves. He hesitated, then crossed to the mantle, and pocketed the little pistol that lay there. His footsteps were soft as he closed the door quietly behind him, and left.

 **~0~0~**

"Where to, guv'?" The cabbie smirked cheekily down at him from his roost, as if the cold did not affect him in the slightest. Holmes shivered, and drew his coat tighter about him.

"High Street, number 316. Clapham." He said in a clipped tone as he pulled himself swiftly into the Hansom. The cabbie's dark eyes flashed, and he tugged at his beard before flicking the whip at the horse.

"Right 'o, Clapham it is. Ye' got a sweetheart, eh? Midnigh' _ronday-voo_?" Chuckled the man. His voice was lost in the clap of the horse's hooves against the cobblestones, the rush of air against the cab. Holmes wished, not for the first time, that the passenger's seat of _all_ hansom cabs were sealed entirely to the outside world. He cursed his luck as the wind bit viciously at his protruding nose. Pulling his cap down further, he released the flaps to cover his ears, and was silent.

The ride was not so very long, but it seemed an eternity of evil weather, a light dusting of snow settling upon his frozen knees. But at last High Street was found, and he shook himself briskly, hopping from the cab with a spring in his step and flipping a few coins to the cabbie.

"Ye ne'er answered me, guv'. She a lady-love, eh? Swee'heart? Or jus' a bit o' skirt?" Warbled the cabbie gleefully. Holmes turned to look at the man, perched on the carriage like some bedraggled bird. Though the light of the street lamps flickered and were dim, he could just make out the spikes of unkempt hair that peeked from beneath his cap, a reddish tint catching the meager light. He searched the man's eyes, but there was no spark of recognition, no tell-tale glimmer of studied movement.

"Who are you?" Holmes asked warily, eyeing the man. He could not be sure in the semi-darkness, or for all the lumpy clothes layered for warmth, but he seemed to be weaponless; no immediate threat. The man shrugged, and looked out into the street.

"No one. No one impor'ant, anyway- jus' a cabbie, tha's all, wonderin' where 'is customers ge' off to. _Bored_ , loike. 'Choo starin' at?"

"Nothing, my friend. No; I live here, this is my home, and I should very much like to be indoors, and out of this abysmal cold. Good night, Sir." And he turned on his heel to walk up the path.

"Say," called the man, before he had gone farther than three steps. "Ye likes the op'ra, guv'?"

Holmes froze, and turned slowly, walking back the way he had come. "What did you say?" He said calmly. His right hand descended casually to the pocket of his coat, where the cool metal of the pistol sought the comforting frame of his long fingers.

"Always loved the op'ra," the man continued conversationally. The horse's ears twitched, its breath a cloud of billowing smoke in the frozen air. "One oy'd like to see- Orfey summat, by a feller name o' Gluck. 'Eard of it? Wouldn' mind 'earin it meself, oy wouldn'. Awful noice singer, 's wot oy 'eard."

Holmes sprang suddenly at the man, one foot finding quick leverage on the step of the Hansom, darting upwards to drag him down. But his fingers found no purchase, for the horse had sprung into action, lurching forward in a gamely canter. He fell heavily, slipping on the icy cobblestones and landing painfully on his shoulder. " _Jim sends his regards!"_ Echoed through the air, all traces of Cockney stylings evaporating into the quickly descending silence.

"Mr. Holmes! You alright, Mr. Holmes?" The piping cry came from the house behind him, and in a moment Archie was before him, scrambling to pull the detective to his feet. "What happened, Mr. Holmes? Did he hit you?"

"No," growled Holmes, clutching at his shoulder and gingerly straightening his arm. More like than not there would be a pretty blossoming of color over it in the morning, but nothing more. "Anything amiss here?"

"No, Sir, nothin' at all!"

He grunted in approval, and glanced at the dark house. "Go home, Archie. You've been out here long enough. Here- find yourself something hot to eat." Holmes pushed a five-pound note into the boy's hand, closing his small fingers over the paper. And with that he aimed a none to gentle cuff at the boy's head, which Archie ducked with a smirk. "Go now. Go on." But he had already flitted away, his job done.

As the boy disappeared into the dark, Holmes walked steadily up to the house, a growing unease forming in the pit of his stomach. Nothing moved save for the slightest breath of wind, rustling the scant skeletons of greenery. All was still: and as he neared the door, his breath quickened, his nerves poised and found themselves at full alertness. He picked the lock with practiced ease, and stole up the stairs, a wide-eyed creature of the dark. Another lock, another easy task- it sprang open at his caressing touch, soundlessly, devotedly, as a lump of metal will respond to the master's hand. And then he was in- in _her_ house, and in the den of that undoubtedly slobbering and slovenly excuse for a man.

Was this too much, too foolish? He hardly cared. His heart beat a steady tattoo, the solitary anchor to his winging thoughts. Her door: he knew it without hesitation, without fear, through some unspoken sense. Was it simply that _she_ called to him silently, through wood and brick and mortar? Had some connection been forged, unwitting and unknowing, between they two? It did not matter: he had simply to be sure of _her,_ of her living, breathing flesh, her whispered voice in his ear. Propriety, logic, sanity- they were thrown to the wind, to the four corners of the Earth, if he could simply be sure of her safety. He twisted the knob, slowly, every so slowly, and pushed.

She was sitting bolt upright upon the bed. A match flared, and a candle was lit by the time he gently closed the door behind him. She stared at him, her deep eyes wide- but still, she made no sound. He came closer- a quick step, then another, and found himself standing like a willow at her bedside, ready to fold or be blown asunder at her command.

"I had to see you," he blurted in a whisper. He knew nothing but her: her pale face, the slightest flush gracing her cheeks, her thin, parted lips, the myriad thoughts that flickered through her irises like moving pictures. Then the _anger_ that blossomed across her face and, oh, it was a beautiful thing to behold!

" _You must go!"_ She hissed wildly. "Oh, dear God- please, Sherlock, leave, leave now, he'll kill you! Get out!"

"Who? That imbecile of a husband?" He scoffed. "Molly- "

" _Please go!"_ She moaned. "How could you be so foolish? He will kill us both! _Go!_ "

"I had to see you- " he repeated, but she pushed at him with all her might.

"No, _no_ , Sherlock- "

"Molly, listen to me- you're in danger- "

"I'm _always_ in danger, don't you see?"

"No- no I mean _real_ danger- please, I beg you, come with me now- "

" _No._ Get out!"

"Then come to me tomorrow, at least- at the _very_ least- _you are not safe!"_

" _Sherlock,"_ she groaned again, and squeezed her eyes shut. He was suddenly very aware of her undressed state, there in her nightdress, her flushed skin glinting at the collarbones, her bare hands clutching at his arms. "Please, please go. I will do my best to come tomorrow but- _please_ , my Father- "

" _What_ about your Father?" He asked, his senses prickling. A glance at the door, a hand held up to silence her. _Nothing._ "Molly," he said slowly, returning his attention to her, "what are you not telling me?"

" _Tomorrow!_ " She hissed frantically. "I will tell you tomorrow. Do not come here. Get out!" She looked at him fiercely as his hand crept up to cup her face; her warm, living cheek. Seizing his hand in her own, she pressed a fervent, searing kiss to his palm. Her warm lips burned him for all of a moment, and he gasped, catching her gaze in his own.

" _Molly- "_ he began, but she had turned him away, her hands pushing him furiously towards the door.

"Go- he will be back any moment! _Go!"_

One final glance, and he fled, down the stairs, out of the house, onto the cold, cold street, into the piercing brilliance of winter. And again he was the shadow in the dark, the calculating form who gazed with hawk's eyes into the night. But something fundamental had been changed, some hard exterior had been cracked. The pieces had begun to pull irrevocably apart, exposing the grit on the lens, the fly in the ointment. Love, that strange and dubious power, shone through; that eternal vulnerability caught in the very bones of man's making.

 **~0~0~**

He stood like a spectre in the window, and watched, as the fragments of his machinations drew themselves ever closer, knitting themselves immutably into his well-spun web. He smiled slowly; the pane of glass was frosty against his hand. Turning, he sought his bed, and found sleep an open-armed friend.


	20. Lex Talionis

**A/N: guys. SORRY! This was dreadfully overdue, but I can't tell you what hell this chapter put me through- or how many freaking drafts! I'm still not entirely pleased with it, but what can you do. Thank you all for being so patient, and to all you wonderful people for leaving me reviews, and encouraging me to keep on! I absolutely love hearing from you, every review makes my day! And a most important thank you to likingthistoomuch, for being truly incredible and supportive, and putting up with my constant e mails. I seriously could not do this without your thoughtful input!**

 **Last thing- the next chapter will be awhile coming too- I'm traveling the next couple weeks and also am supposed to be writing a kid's book, so I kinda need to get that done. This is NOT, nor will ever be, on hiatus. Just be patient and I'll get this done, promise! More action next chapter :) now,** **onwards! xxK**

 **XX. Lex Talionis**

 _Tomorrow._

The word had escaped her lips like a newborn thing; a whispered promise, released from its tremulous bonds into the charged, electric air.

 _Tomorrow._

Tomorrow came with the first weak rays of sun, slanting through the windows of 221B as he stared into the streets below. The earliest of risers padded through the waking streets, heads bowed and collars upturned against the writhing winter wind.

It was a day of waiting; of carpets grown threadbare from restless, pacing feet, of snapped replies and curls gone wild with the weight of anxious fingers. Day slipped silently into silky darkness, kissed through with the soft vow of a spring to come. And then the night came anew, and was passed in bristling impatience, with a log thrown into the grate again, and again, and again.

On the third day, Watson found Sherlock Holmes as he had left him: folded in upon himself, eyes red-rimmed with the weary fire that sleepless nights impress upon even the most hardy of men. He was pale, and his visage brooding as he stared sightlessly into the ash-strewn hearth.

Watson moved across the room with measured steps, his gaze darting towards his friend, and away again, as if his very presence might crack the ever-present, polished veneer. Holmes was a clever man; a collector of knowledge, an explosive presence in John's once static world. But was he a strong man? In some ways, perhaps- but for a man who proclaimed to the world that sentiment was nothing more than a chemical defect, he was sorely deceived by his own brilliant mind.

Seating himself at the table with a sigh, Watson reached for the morning paper, the smell of fresh, black ink drifting over him as he fanned the pages. Nothing was of interest- nothing _could_ be of interest, for Holmes had not moved a muscle. His eyes flicked beneath half-closed lids, his palms pressed tightly together as if in supplication. It was the manner in which Watson often found him, lost in dark and racing thoughts- and he could no sooner ignore it when he knew that the cause of his behavior might very well be remedied with no great effort.

"Holmes."

He did not answer: she had not come.

" _Holmes._ " The name was like a barbed knife, winging through the air, splintering his stuporous cocoon into a thousand jagged pieces.

"No." Holmes replied from between gritted teeth. He looked up from beneath heavy, glowering brows. " _No_ , I have not eaten. _No_ , I have not slept. If there be light from yonder window, it is false. And am I not- _unsurprised?_ She has not come, as she promised she would. Women are fickle, Watson, and untrue: they give us hope, and then dash it away, like to- "

"Good God, man, do you hear yourself! You sound every inch the fool!" Watson let out a great bark of laughter, leaning backward in his seat as he slapped a hand against the table. "Love has seized you, body and soul, is that it? Am I to be forever lectured by the starving poet who now resides inside that cavernous mouth of yours, until Fair Lady deigns to honor us with her presence? Then I beg of you, Miss Molly Hooper, show your wayward face! Sherlock, listen to me: Eat. Sleep. It's a wonder you can string even two words together!"

"I'm not hungry." Holmes bit out sulkily.

"Have it your way, then," He reached across the table, ringing the little brass bell for the maid. It tinkled merrily, and Holmes's scowl grew only darker. "Only," Watson continued, "it occurs to me that if Miss Hooper is not here, and she _ought_ to be, then it might be best to simply ignore any wishes she had pertaining to your presence in her home. Husband be damned, eh? Whisk her off her feet, you brash young thing! Obey the poet, stand tall and chivalrous, all that romantic drivel! You've certainly got the hair for it- off with you! _Be not my breakfast spectre!_ " He shouted after him- for Holmes had stared sourly for the space of a moment, before standing abruptly, sweeping his greatcoat over his shoulders, and stalking out of the room. The maid gasped loudly on the stair as he presumably pushed past her in great haste; a gust of air swirled up into the apartment, and the door slammed.

Watson snorted, and flung open the newspaper in a very, very satisfied sort of way.

 **~0~0~**

The words teased Molly from their inky confines as she stared in frustration at the moldering scrap of old paper. She hated their mystery; and yet there were no answers to be found here, in her little private library, swathed in old creaking bookcases and miserable, abhorrent books.

 _Eurus adfuit. Jim Adfuit._

 _Eurus was here. Jim was here._

And if only she had not been so overcome with panic that day in Brook's study! She sighed in frustration, tracing the names with her finger, as if by doing so they might yield up some long forgotten secret. The names were not unknown to her, and yet it had taken all of an hour for the blinding panic to recede; for her mind to clear and connect those two small pieces of the puzzle. For _Jim_ was undoubtedly _Richard_ \- there was no mistaking that cunning, sharp face- but Eurus? What of her? Something was locked away in that girl; something relevant, something important. She closed her eyes, calling up the image to the forefront of her mind, touching the silvery grey image with phantom fingertips, recalling the steady light of the lamp as it glanced off their miniature faces. The girl's wide eyes bore into her from the grey confines of memory, her smile somehow both coy, and knowing. Was she the cause of Jim-now-Richard? Could there have been a before Eurus, and an after? _Where was she now?_ The questions circled in her head, each claiming the other in turn as they fed upon each other, and grew. It was futile, she realized, folding the paper back into her pouch on creases made soft with time. She could go no farther with the simple information she had at hand, the guesswork that had led her this far.

And did it matter, in the end? As soon as Mr. Brook left, she would be off like a shot; a bleeding blur in the streets of London, streaking towards 221B, Baker St. _What, then, of Papa?_ The uneasy question breathed in her ear- but Molly shoved it firmly away, away. And _what_ , then, of Papa, who had sold her like a cow to ease some unknown fault, some unknown crime? _What_ , then: was her life now forfeit to the vanity of men?

She curled, like a sulking cat, into the window seat of the little library, peering moodily down into the snowy street. It felt like an eternity, this waiting, this unbearable stasis. Mr. Brook had kept to his rooms for nigh on three days, and the knowledge plagued her, as if he knew of her plan and doggedly hindered it. If Julie had not informed her that he had been receiving meals in his rooms, Molly might not have known he were there at all. Not a noise slipped through that door; no sigh of sickness, no murmur of speech. But she did know: for in the night-time, when the shadows gathered to fill the rooms with close, stifling hands, she listened. The quiet fed the coil of tension that wound itself, like some gnawing worm, into her breast. She _listened_ , her ears straining through the gloom for some truth. And in the blackest part of the night, the footfalls would come; soft, slow, unyielding, to rest outside her door. The dread filled her, and her body slowly gave way to the fear- and though the steps would soon turn, and fade away into the stillness, Molly did not sleep, and found her skin stinking of cold, stale sweat come the morning.

She thought she might burst, or never wake, in turn, as her head sank back against the sill of the window. Tired, she was so very _tired_ of it all, and wished with every fibre of her being that it might all simply be a terrible, awful dream. On the knife's edge between sleep and wakefulness she wondered, did _he_ wait for her? Did he hate her, that she had given up a promise to him, that she had not kept?

There was movement in the street, hazy figures that shuffled to and fro, horses that snorted as they pulled their stone-eyed passengers on their way. Her forehead leaned against the chill glass of the window, and she closed her eyes, whispering slow breaths onto the pane, fogging the outside world from view. The cold throbbed deep into her skin, and drew her into wakefulness even as her lids brushed slowly over her eyes. _One day,_ she thought, _I will sleep, and will never wake, and will never be afraid, ever again._

But even as she groped for that sweet oblivion, the soft skin at the nape of her neck began to prickle, the hairs standing on end. Through the cloudy glass a man emerged, his manner indecisive as he approached the gate, pausing in his watchfulness. He stood grim, and unmoving, his posture that of a scowling Lord with his hands grasped tightly behind his back. The black curls that fell across his forehead were a dark mess, the tips of his nose and ears a bright pink against the blanket of slowly dirtying snow. _Sherlock_. Undoubtedly, unquestionably it was him; not some fever-dream, nor a creation made of wishes.

The little tree that stood sentinel where once there had been grass stretched its bare limbs upwards; and the raven that squatted in its embrace cawed, lending its voice to the air. It was as if the bird had spoken: for though she could not see the details of his face from this distance, she knew the moment when his pale eyes snapped unerringly to her own. The shock of recognition ran through them both in a shudder down the spine, a parting of lips. She rose upon her knees to stare at him, pressing the palms of her hands against the cold glass. He was _here._ His hands moved sharply from behind his back, and his feet carried him two faltering steps, then leapt over the low fence into the little snow that had clung to the earth. The raven cawed again, a sharp staccato, a grating chuckle. Still he came, a step and a step and a step, and suddenly she knew: _now_ was her moment, for if not now, then when? Was there anything of value to her in this terrible place, a life to be lived, a love to be lost? _Nothing._

She hopped lightly from her perch, and made quick work of the window latch. Glancing up she found him there still, directly beneath now, the string of dark, the ragged footprints leading through the mess of melting snow a testament to his physical presence. She fumbled with the casement, and pushed- but the window remained stubbornly in its bed, as if it had never been opened in its life. Molly sighed in exasperation, a rush of adrenaline beginning to pound its way through her blood. _Stuck!_ She mouthed through the glass, and a nervous smile twitched over Sherlock's lips as he looked on. He stood uneasily, on the balls of his feet, unsure of his presence. His eyes caught hers, and then darted upwards. The raven laughed, shifted, spread its wings. A shadow darkened his face; his lip curled. And she was filled with sudden, icy dread.

"MARGARET!" A voice roared from above.

It was as if the very fires of hell had burst to life before her eyes. She did not think; she _slammed_ the sum total of her body weight against the window, once, twice- the thumping of hard footsteps rang in her ears, coupled with the vague word _"Jump!"_ That was Sherlock's desperate cry. With a wordless shout she shoved again at the window, that one barrier, that one object which stood in her way. It gave way suddenly, and with a mighty groan of wood against wood, the frame shuddered forth, and drew her with it. She shrieked, for abruptly her fingers scrabbled at nothing but cold, empty air. Flailing in panic, her slippered foot found purchase, catching the bookcase at an awkward angle in an effort to twist herself round.

Below her she could just make out Sherlock's face, white with panic. " _I will catch you!_ Jump, Molly! _Jump!"_ He shrieked, his voice hoarse as an animal's. The raven took sudden flight, cackling in the biting wind, so that the wild sound swirled about her, and Sherlock, and the very house that trembled in nature's grip. But she pulled herself upright, her muscles taut and shuddering as she willed herself to leap- and though she knew it was but two stories, the ground had never seemed so solid, so very far below. Her breathing was shallow, _noise_ rang and roared in ears like a great ocean of hysteria- nothing quite made sense except the man below her, his arms held wide to receive her-

" _Trust me, Molly- jump."_ It was like a soft whisper in her mind; a deep, tolling bell that rang true. She closed her eyes, and the corners of her mouth turned upwards. _Home_ , she thought- and jumped.

Hands closed easily about her waist. But they were not _his_ , and though her knees had bent, the wind had not tangled her hair, no icy fingers caressed her cheeks. Richard Brook lifted her bodily, and as she caught his coal-black eye with her own, she _screamed._ Her feet connected with his flesh, her fists pummeled at whatever part of him she could reach. She writhed in his grasp as he spoke between gritted teeth, "Do you mock me, Molly? What sort of fool do you take me for, to bring your lover here, _under my very nose,_ and believe I would not notice? _I will not be cuckolded in my own home!"_ His eyes gleamed as he shook her violently between his two hands, like a rag thing, like a toy. Her head knocked about on her neck with such abandon that she was momentarily stunned and breathless- but before she could regain herself, he had flung her aside. The heavy desk chair caught her between the shoulder blades as she fell, so that it fell with her, pinning her legs painfully to the ground. And he was upon her again, hauling her body upright in a flurry of torn cloth and hard hands. It was all she could do to catch her breath, but she cried out in wordless rage, trying to _punch,_ to _bite_ at whatever part of him she could reach- but he slapped her hard across the face, the echo of old wounds stunning her into silence. Her head snapped back, hitting the corner of the bookcase that Brook had cornered her into.

For a moment, all was silent. Then the ringing began, deep as a drum, growing relentlessly as a roaring wave. The edges of her vision blackened, until all that remained was his face against her own, filling the world. He was everything, in that second- and though his lips moved, she could not understand their sounds. She watched him, as time slowed to a point: the smooth lines of his face with scarcely a wrinkle to mar it; his mouth, thin, wide, hard-set. Spittle flew from his lips to speckle her face, and his teeth flashed dangerously with the words she did not hear. But- _curious._ His eyes gazed down upon her with not a trace of the frenzied rage his manner professed. They were hard, and cold- _and shot through with wild mirth,_ as if he was but a poor actor in some strange, whimsical play.

She reached up to him suddenly, her fingers moving of their own volition as they lightly traced the planes of his face. His voice, that furious howl which made a savage music of its own, trailed away in surprise. He stiffened beneath her questing touch, considering her with the wary eyes of a predator. Then she saw him, the boy in the photograph, however faint he had become beneath the supple mask of _Richard Brook._ She probed at his gaze with simple frankness, searching for an understanding that evaded her. There was some heavily guarded secret in this man, some truth buried deep which she would never learn. Her lips parted, and blew breath upon his face. He flinched, as if struck- but she whispered, _"Who are you?"_ The words were soft, and clothed in silk- yet tipped with hard steel.

And Richard Brook was wroth to be so tested.

Suddenly the room was awhirl with movement, with sound, with fear, pungent and formidable. She found herself limp in his grasp, pliable to his will in the ebb and flow of action that her mind could not quite take the measure of. Molly saw only those eyes, those deep bottomless pits that would swallow her into their depths, and knew: _I will die here_ , and it was a sudden, plain thing. She embraced it, and rejoiced in its simplicity.

 _No._

At a distance, she heard him, his wild, strained voice, the pitch and pull of it clear as he called her name: _Molly. Molly._

" _Let me go,"_ she hissed, the words escaping her mouth as she came to herself. It seemed to only fuel his rage, for he aimed a hard slap at her, tearing at her dress. With a wordless cry she rushed at him, driving him back as she rained blows down upon him with as much force as she could muster. "You are no husband of _mine!"_ She shrieked, but in a moment they had traded places, her spine pressed achingly into the edge of the desk.

"I _will_ have you, Margaret, whether you will it or no!" Richard screamed, and he had become unhinged, frothing at the lips, his look mad and terrifying. With one hand he held her prone, his knee pressing between her cramping thighs to still her. But she would have none of it- and grasping wildly for whatever weapon would come to her, she found the cold tang of metal fitting easily into her hand. She slashed at him, leaving a trail of black across his white shirt. And again, across his face in a diagonal stroke that rent his cheek sharply in a deep divide. Black and red wept from beneath his splayed fingers as he shrieked- she did not hesitate, and aimed a furious kick at his torso, launching herself out of the library, down the hall, the pen clattering useless to the floor.

" _An eye for an eye, Richard!"_ She screamed, turning, her anger suddenly so great she thought she might burst from it.

And she ran to the door, wrenching it open and stumbling into his trembling arms, for he was _there,_ and the tears streamed unbidden from her eyes as they clutched each other clumsily, frantically. The files and pins that had stood within his clutch rained to the floor, another standing fast in the keyhole. "What…" she began, reaching for one of the objects upon the floor, but Holmes had already pulled her upright, cupping her face in his hands. "Are you hurt? What has he done?" A long finger brushed at the blood clotting in her hair, the bruises beginning to bloom across her face. "I'll _kill_ him- " he said, his voice low and menacing.

"No- _no,_ Sherlock,"she choked, tugging at his hand. "Just take me away, _please- "_

He looked at her, stricken, then down the long hallway from where she had come. But, queerly, no sound came from the rooms beyond; no movement, or shriek of rage. And on her face was an expression of such honest desperation, that he could not but obey. Silently, he scooped her into his arms, holding her close. "Come away, then," he murmured into her hair- and in a moment, they were gone.

 **~0~0~**

"Would you care for some tea?"

"That would be lovely, thank you."

"I'm afraid Holmes only keeps the exotic stuff about; will green tea do?"

"Certainly. I am very fond of green tea."

"As am I. I am afraid we are rather lacking in biscuits. I could ring for some...?"

"Never mind. I hardly came here to take tea." Miss Adler raised one brow pointedly as she sat primly upon the armchair, hands folded in her lap. Watson sighed, and seated himself across from her.

"Indeed you did not," he agreed. "But Holmes has the bulk of this business tucked away in that over-large head of his, and as such we must wait upon him."

Irene Adler was a very beautiful woman; the sort of woman whose mysterious glance held any multitudes of secrets that a man could not but wish to discover. In short, she was a woman who knew her place, her function, in this Victorian world, and played the hand she had been dealt with admirable aplomb. And so it was no wonder that Watson could hardly keep from staring as she eyed him boldly, with only the barest hint of a smile playing about her painted lips. He coughed, and directed his gaze downwards.

"Are you quite well?" She said archly. Her voice seemed to penetrate every corner of the room with its directness, though her smooth tones never raised above a careful dynamic. Watson shifted uncomfortably, fidgeting with the worn silver button of his waistcoat.

"Hm? Yes, very well, very well. It is... a lovely day, Miss Adler, do you not agree?" He said, and inwardly cringed.

The day had grown late, and Holmes had left long ago, leaving him with nothing much of interest to do other than poke about the flat and consider the possibility of re-opening his practice. And when the bell had rung at quarter-past-four, he had positively leapt from his seat in the anticipation of sharpening his teeth on a case without Holmes's overbearing assistance. But- alas!- it was Miss Adler who entered, her face etched heavily in a combination of irritability and amusement. So it had been left to him alone to fumble for courtesies that had long since been lost in the war. She sat straight as a pin, her elegant silks flaring from beneath her smart jacket in sharp contrast to the well-worn rugs beneath their feet. She looked at him, Watson realized with a touch of discomfort, as if he were something mildly distasteful that had crawled out from under the sofa.

"Mr. Watson," she began, after watching him tug awkwardly at once side of his moustache, and then the other.

" _Doctor_ Watson," he interrupted pleasantly. She sniffed, and continued.

"Dr. Watson, have you any idea of when Mr. Holmes is expected to return?"

"Haven't the foggiest."

"Well."

"Hm," Watson agreed.

"You are clearly in need of Holmes's presence to loosen your tongue."

"Quite so. No- that is, I mean to say- "

" _John!"_ The frantic voice burst in upon their nettled conversation, accompanied by the _crash_ of the door below bursting open, rattling as it bounced off the wall.

" _John!"_ Holmes cried again, his voice shot through with anxiety. But Watson had already rushed to the landing, peering over the bannister.

"Holmes, is that you?" He shouted.

"No, it's _Charles Darwin_ \- of course it's me, you great idiot, come down at once!"

"Miss Adler is here to see you," Watson called, glancing back to see her framed in the doorway as he clattered down the stairs.

"I don't give a _fig_ about Irene!"

"Sherlock, I'm fine- please, rest assured- set me down- " murmured a softer voice.

"I should think not, Molly, you're very nearly concussive." Holmes retorted.

And as Watson leapt down the last two stairs, he saw Holmes with Miss Hooper in his arms, looking very much the worse for wear. Her homely dress was stained and torn, bruises and blood speckled across her face in the graceful arc of an artist's hand. Her head lolled limply on her neck, as if she struggled to keep herself awake. But through a great stroke of effort she rallied, and looked him in the eye: and such grim determination burned in her wide-blown pupils that it stopped him in his tracks. She caught her breath, and laughed breathily, before her lids fluttered and she slumped against Holmes's chest.

"Get her upstairs." Said Watson immediately. "Bring her to my room- " but Holmes had already shoved past him, catching two stairs in a step as if it was no great feat. "Don't let her sleep!" Watson shouted, bounding after him.

Miss Adler jumped to the side as the party approached, watching wordlessly as Holmes kicked open the door to his room and disappeared inside. Watson hurried past her with an apologetic glance, disappearing into the room after the others. A moan eased through the half-closed door, and the sound of low, murmured voices, rising and falling, lured Irene with the blurred edges of their words. She edged discreetly through the kitchen, coming close enough to listen to the proceedings without a moment's pause as to the moral implications of the situation. She was, after all, an exceedingly clever and manipulative woman, and such petty things as _morals_ could hardly deter her from listening in on a private conversation.

Dr. Watson leaned over the bed, where his patient lay like a rag doll, staining the pristine coverlets with a crumbling of crusted blood that ran from her hairline down her cheek. "Can you hear me, Molly?" He asked in an urgent voice, the bumbling, uncomfortable man that had given her tea falling away as the Doctor within him surged into being, his movements measured, deft, and focused. Gently he pulled back her eyelids, first one, then the other, watching the movement of her eyes. "She's concussive- "

"I am _aware_ of that-" Holmes snapped.

"Where are your smelling salts?" There was a clatter of drawers, and the soft _pop_ of a lifted stopper. A sharp gasp, then a groan. "Molly…" Holmes murmured softly, the bed creaking slightly under his weight as he shifted to sit beside her.

"Where…" she mumbled, her voice slurry and exhausted.

"Here. In my- ah, in my bed. With myself. And Dr. Watson. Dr. Watson and I. Not to say that your, your virtue has been- _infringed_ upon- "

"Holmes," began Watson in a warning voice. Irene stifled a laugh behind her hand as she inched closer, close enough to see the warm flush that spread over Holmes's cheeks.

"Molly, stay awake." He said in a clipped tone, reaching for her hand and squeezing it in his own. "In your state, while it is- ah- much more _pleasant_ to simply succumb to sleep, it would really be much better for you to stay awake, if not overly alert, so as to ensure that you do not slip into a comatose state, which I should very much regret."

" _Sherlock,"_ Watson bit out- but Holmes continued, not to be deterred.

"So as I said, Molly, it would be really rather _excellent_ if you stayed awake, and not comatose, so that we could get on with this compelling business of catching the deviant murderer still at large; and once we're through with that, we ought to send your erstwhile dimwitted husband to whatever nether-regions sees fit to have him, which in turn will undo this nonsensical, daft, _foolheaded_ bit of blackmail that seems to have provoked your Father into planting you in this sorry mess in the first place- and then I would very much enjoy it if you agreed to be my wife."

A shocked silence ensued, broken only by the soft rise and fall of Molly Hooper's breathing.

" _Molly!_ Wake up!" Holmes shouted suddenly.

"Oh!" Molly's lashes fluttered, and she struggled to sit up against the headboard. "Do forgive me, Mr. Holmes- Sherlock- I… I cannot seem to… to stay awake…" she murmured, her head beginning to droop again. "What was it you were... saying?"

"I was asking if you had any geese as a child. Or kept pigs."

"Oh," she blinked up at him blearily, the question surprising her into puzzled alertness. "Oh, well- I suppose we kept some geese… "

"How many, then?"

"I- well, I don't know for certain, twenty or so?"

"Then Christmas dinner was never lacking."

"It was not!" She laughed, sitting a bit straighter and glancing around. "Could I have something to eat?" Molly asked, as if she were a child that wished for nothing more than a biscuit.

"Something will be brought up to you." Watson replied firmly, then directed his attention to his friend. "Holmes, come away for a moment- there is urgent business we must discuss with Miss Adler- I will call upon Mrs. Hudson to see to Miss Hooper- "

"The devil you will." Retorted Holmes plainly. "We will address it here, and now. Irene, cease your lurking and come in. Molly- eat this," he said, producing a tin of biscuits from a drawer in the nightstand.

"Are they chocolate?" She murmured sleepily, clearly not yet in control of her faculties.

"Ginger. Watson, fetch the tea- I saw you've only just brewed a pot, stinginess is not a strong quality in a gentleman." Watson huffed, and left, gesturing Miss Adler into the room. By the time he had returned with the pot and a fresh teacup, Molly had worked her way through nearly half the tin with relish, as if she had not eaten in nearly a fortnight.

"I am afraid this was not the right time to call," Miss Adler said after a moment's hesitation. "I will come back tomorrow- "

"Nonsense," said Holmes with a wave of his hand, though he did not look at her. He was in a queer mood, and his eyes glittered as he watched Molly pick at the crumbs that had scattered across her ruined dress. "Miss Adler, though I do not have proof of it, I have reason to believe that you know of one James Moriarty- though I suppose it is equally possible he was operating under a different name. And what of him, you ask? Let us cut to the quick." He turned then, and fixed her with his peculiar, colorless stare. "Moriarty is the killer of whom you heard me speak. He has his eye set upon you, to hold, and to kill, and then to cut away your silver tongue, that instrument that gives you voice. Now, do not lie to me, for I would know all of it: have you come across this man, and has he ever given you reason to fear him?

Miss Adler blanched, clutching at the door handle with a white-knuckled grip. "I- Moriarty? That little weasel of a man, with the dark hair? Surely you jest!"

Holmes laughed darkly, his face black as a storm cloud. "I do not jest, Madam- though I see I have quite hit the mark. You _do_ know him, enough so that he has instilled a sense of unease into that clever head of yours- and, ah! He has not even bothered to cover his tracks. In plain sight…" he muttered darkly.

"I- well yes, I know of him, of course I do- he dogged my steps for the better part of a week, but it was- well, months ago! And nothing ever came of it- well. He approached me after a performance. We had words; he wished me to join him for an evening, and I politely declined. There was something in his manner- too smooth, too polished for my taste… and yet he seemed to possess no title, nor grounds to be so imprudently bold! But after every performance for a week thereafter, he skulked outside the theatre doors, waiting for my departure. How persistent he was!"

"And what did he say? Was there any mention of Holmes?" Watson pressed urgently. Holmes scowled down at the bedspread, kneading Molly's fingers between his own as she sipped, vacantly, at her steaming cup.

"No- none at all. He simply- well, he did say that we possessed a mutual acquaintance, but would speak no further when I pressed him. He… he offered me pretty things, lovely things- dresses, and the like- but come now, do you think me such a dullard as to fall for such shallow tricks?"

"You would not be the first," Watson mumbled glumly, glancing away. Irene shook her head firmly, the beaded lines of her collar tinkling gently with the motion.

"No- no, I suppose not. But, come to think of it- not a week ago, I thought I spied his man, sitting in the audience. Do you know the one? That red-haired fellow, who slinks continually after him like a whipped hound."

"I know the one," Holmes grimaced, glancing at Molly, who seemed to be scarcely holding together the thread of the conversation. She smiled sweetly up at him, her eyes vague and unfocused. Offering a small smile in return, he swept his thumb across her wrist, squeezing it gently as he focused his attention to Irene. "I know him only too well."

Miss Adler bit her lip, showing for the first time a hint of the disquiet that gnawed at her from within. "He was there," She began firmly, then hesitated. "I was not sure if I had conjured him… the stage, you know, summons… _phantoms …_ of all varieties. The lights blind you, and the music flows; the dancers move as if by some invisible force. And by that same force that commits the music to memory and draws it forth in a measured stream of sound, he seemed to be there - _leering_ , like some flame-haired demon- and then he was gone! It could very well have been a trick of the stage-lights. I am not one easily shaken, Mr. Holmes, but that night… that night rattled me, to my very bones." She shivered suddenly, folding her arms over her chest and twisting her reddened lips in distaste. "Needless to say, the performance did not go well. There is nothing like fear to constrict your vocal chords, and tighten the chest. But surely there must be some mistake! I traded a handful of words with Moriarty, and though he was certainly _unsettling_ , I did not think much of it. But now this! Tell me, what have I done to merit such unwelcome attention?"

"It is what I have done to _him,_ I fear _._ But the particulars are of little consequence, and buried deep in the past. The matter at hand is this: he will most certainly make an attempt on your life at the premier performance two days hence."

Irene's eyes widened in shock, her lips parting to show the slightest glimpse of her perfect teeth. "At the _performance?_ Are you quite sure?"

"It was told to me, in no uncertain terms, by that- valet, did you say? That ginger-topped scoundrel. Well, I say uncertain..." Holmes trailed away, avoiding Watson's eye as he attempted to pin him with a beady-eyed stare. "He certainly has a flair for the _dramatic,_ the taking of women's tongues is hardly what one would call _run-of-the-mill_. Ah, and the opportunity to take a _singer's_ tongue, with a full audience at an opera house? Why, he could scarcely resist that opportunity!" He laughed easily. "Watson and I will be in attendance, obviously; you will sing, we will catch the villain, and that, I think, should be the end of it."

Miss Adler bristled, taking a step further into the room. "Mr. Holmes, I will _not_ be treated as... as a fly on the line, as _bait!_ I must protest- my life is very clearly in peril and your plan, if you could call it that, is fairly ludicrous. I absolutely insist on a larger degree of protection!"

"I am afraid I must agree with Miss Adler," Watson began, glancing at Holmes. "Moriarty has proved, if nothing else, that he is unpredictable- " but Holmes waved them both away impatiently.

"You underestimate me: I am wounded! Inspector Lestrade and his men will be present, to escort you from your rooms to the theatre and back. With this assignment, at least, I do not think his officers will be underfoot. You need not fear- "

"And so what would you have me do, then? Go about my business as if there was not some criminal intent on- how did you put it- cutting out my _tongue_? I am a bold woman, Mr. Holmes, but there are limits!"

"That is _precisely_ what you must do. Sing, you mockingbird; have done with it, and then return to Paris. It will be as if this meeting had never happened. Perhaps we will share a glass when this mess has run its course, but for now, you will excuse me. John, I require hot water and fresh linens. Her cut is not deep, but I would clean it." And with that he turned his attention back to Molly, who had watched the whole of the proceedings bemusedly, the side of her temple slowly purpling.

"Ah- yes, of course. Miss Adler, please, I will see you out." Watson bowed slightly, offering his hand, and they slipped away, pulling the door closed. With a glance behind him, he beckoned to Irene silently, leading her into the sitting room. They stood as conspirators: close, and out of earshot. His face was ripe with anxiety as she studied him, his mustache twitching furiously as he scrubbed a rough hand over his face. "I apologize," he sighed, "for all… _this_ ," he gestured vaguely towards the faded green of Holmes's bedroom door. "You ought not to be tangled up in all this perplexity, but, well- I am afraid there is nothing to be done. So far as I can make out, you have been a target for a long, long time." He cocked his head, eyeing her keenly. "Holmes respects you, deeply. You are… well, he does not speak of you often, but when he does, it is with a great amount of respect- _the woman who outsmarted him at his own game_. You are quite extraordinary, Miss Adler, and he would miss you, if you were gone." He spread his hands wide and shrugged slightly, helpless in the situation that presented itself.

"Do you mean to tell me that I am being targeted precisely _because_ of what I mean to Mr. Holmes? Why, I hardly know the man! Our last meeting... it could barely have been called that. I outsmarted him, as you say," she smirked, and let out a soft, breathy, _hah._

Watson smiled wryly. "It is why he holds you in such esteem. I had thought that perhaps there was… _something_... between..." He trailed off, studying her light blue eyes for a moment. She raised one perfect brow at him defiantly, and he coughed awkwardly, glancing down. "But never mind that. This man- Moriarty- is _mad_. From everything that I have heard of him, and everything I have seen him do _-_ he has manipulated and ended the lives of many women…"

"... And one of them was close to you, I take it," she said, laying a delicate hand on his arm. Watson flinched sharply, shrugging her off as he glared at her.

"Right again." He said in clipped tones, his jaw setting firmly. "And the loss is quite fresh." Sighing, he turned away, his face twisting as he shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his trousers. "I would not see him take another victim. Holmes… he cares for you, as an… _ally,_ I imagine- "

"Or a friend?"

Watson snorted, smiling slightly beneath his whiskers as he glanced up. "Yes, I suppose that would do it. You are his friend, even if he does not show it."

Irene Adler shrugged, laughing humorlessly. "He's quite changed, since I saw him last." She paused, considering. "That girl... is she... responsible?"

"I am not sure it is that simple. Oh, there's no doubt she's influenced him- and for the better, I think. Who knew a beating heart occupied the same body as that cold, calculating brain? But it is not simply her presence. This case, I think, has rattled him to the core. He is not used to his work having such a personal bent- it has, if anything, confused him; stifled the practiced ease in which he accomplishes his tasks. Make no mistake, he continues to astonish me with the speed, precision- the sheer _talent_ of his deductions. But he has come late to this case, and he... well, he has yet to catch our man. Does Miss Hooper divide his attention? In all probability, yes. But is that to be helped? How could I deny these affections to a man I know and love only too well? And besides, it is not within my control- though I would not put an end to it, had I the power." Watson looked into Miss Adler's eyes, and found them shining, with satisfaction and poignant regret both.

"I only hope that one day I might find a man half so gallant, or so true, as Sherlock Holmes," she mused.

"You may yet," he rejoined, and smiled. "A woman such as yourself? Come now."

She scoffed easily, and held out a long white hand. "Be well, Dr. Watson. Keep us all alive, will you?"

He bent, kissing the tips of her fingers lightly. "I will do my utmost, Miss Adler."

 **~0~0~**

She slipped from the dusky margins of half-sleep into the hard-edged land of the living with the suddenness of a wave reaching its peak. With a soft intake of breath, she was again aware- of her mouth, which felt, and tasted, like sandpaper; of her eyes, sore and dry. The bed in which she sat, propped upon a multitude of crisp, clean pillows, was not hers. The last faint rays of winter sun slipped through the cracks of the drapes, illuminating a desk stacked high with tattered books, and an inkwell- dry, by the looks of it- torn and crumpled papers, and six orange pips, scattered like so many sown seeds upon the black earth. Molly shifted gingerly, wincing as the movement propelled the dull throb in her temple into a full-blown ache. Instinctively, her hand flew to her head- or it would have, had she not noticed the mild weight that had settled upon it. And though the days events exploded into her memory with abrupt, debilitating force, she could not help but smile at the sight of Sherlock Holmes, slumped forward onto the bedspread in an exhibit of pure exhaustion. His breath fluttered the dark curls that covered his face, his hand still resting over her own. Gingerly, she withdrew- but the movement woke him. Unceremoniously he pulled himself upright, his look half wild as he gazed at her.

"You're back," He said after a moment, passing a hand through his hair and nodding in satisfaction. "I was worried, truth be told- you were quite _vague,_ for a good while- "

"I am well, don't fuss. Other than this awful headache…" she grimaced, then squeezed his fingers in a comforting gesture. "I am sorry I woke you- "

"I was not sleeping." He cut her off briskly.

"I saw you," Molly replied pointedly, cocking her head as her lips twitched upward.

Holmes pulled a face, straightening his waistcoat back into a semblance of order, unbuttoned though it was. "I nodded off, nothing more," he amended, refusing to meet her eye.

She sighed, falling back against the pillows as a heavy lethargy began again to pluck at her. "What am I to do now?" She whispered to the air, filled with the quiet sounds of the house, the slow, steady breathing of its occupants.

"There's nothing to be done, except carry on with our tasks."

"Our tasks?" She opened one eye, and gazed into his still, strange face, the lines of his hands that had withdrew and folded into his lap. He studied her consideringly in steady, equal measure, taking in her many hurts, and the tenacious soul that lay within.

"What was it you said to him?" he asked suddenly.

Her brow twitched in confusion, and she plucked at the hem of the of her ruined dress. The cloth frayed between her fingers, a cascade of little threads. "When?" She asked in a small voice.

"You know when."

"An eye for an eye," she said after a moment, her voice stony, her glance unyielding. "I cut him, with a pen- down the side of his cheek. I- I sliced it in two and, he will have a scar like- like mine…" she trailed away, wincing as she touched the roughness that marred her face, the glossy mark that twitched downward to her ear.

She was old, then; much older than her years. And yet that steadfast resolve, that unwavering strength in the face of the ugly and the violent was abruptly the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. She did not look away, though her lip trembled, fighting away unshed tears. But in that look, she challenged him: the gauntlet had been thrown, and it was his by right to collect it. Holmes burst out into gleeful laughter, disbelief and pride warring in his features. He was wrong to do so, he knew it- but the sound broke from his lips, and pleased him.

"If you find it so _amusing- "_ she began coldly, withdrawing into herself.

"No- no, Molly, you misunderstand me!" He exclaimed fervently, leaning forward. "It is simply- _lex talionis._ The law of retaliation. And by God, have you executed it with precision! Not one in a hundred would dare to do what you have done today- and with such a superb _irony!_ Molly Hooper, I congratulate you: you will never set foot in that miserable house again, by your own free will. And if you would have me, I- well… " he faltered, and stood suddenly over her. She looked up into his drawn face, and saw the light that glimmered in his eye. Laughing softly at his enthusiasm, she drew his hand into her own, kissing the upturned palm.

"It would be enough for now, Sherlock, if you would allow me to stay here, perhaps, for awhile."

His lips tugged upwards. "I believe I have made the offer before."

She squeezed his hand lightly. "You have. And this time, I accept your offer."

He nodded curtly, searching for words. "I… that is, you ought to rest, then."

"I will, I think. Only- I should very much like to… to change out of this dress, I suppose you haven't any…" she stopped, for he looked at her peculiarly, his eyes narrowed as she felt the weight of his gaze on her scar. Molly's face burned with sudden shame, and she began to turn away. Drowsiness plucked again at her, and she willed him away, so that she might, finally, give in…

"No, I beg you- stop." He lowered himself onto the bed beside her, keeping the distance between them, yet drawing close. Slowly, his hand raised, and came near; and the light pressure of his fingers swept against the puckered flesh. "Be _proud_ , Molly," he said, his voice a low, fierce murmur in her ear. Her eyes fluttered closed, and she gave herself willingly into the welcoming arms of sweet sleep. And it was not for a long time afterward that she remembered the warm weight of his lips at all, as they brushed, like a prayer, against her precious flaw.


	21. Put Up Thy Dagger

**A/N: Sorry I'm late. Again. BUT, it's up, it's here, and I have a really good excuse: I just published my fourth album! So if anybody is in the mood to listen to Bach (which you should always be,) go to www DOT atonalhits DOT com and go listen! :)**

 **Thanks as always to all you amazing readers, you really make my days incredibly brighter! And of course to the always wonderful likingthistoomuch, for being my writing rock. You rock! (see what I did there?) Ok, enough: go read! Cheers! xxK**

 **XXI. Put Up Thy Dagger**

Music twisted its languid way from deep within the old, scarred wood. The sound was restless, wending its way through first one melody, and then the next, never quite taking shape, or form. It plunged forth from the f-holes, carefully carven a hundred years past, to fill the the room, and the room beyond it; to creep through the hallway and under her door.

And when Molly woke, it was to this fidgety, restive tune. _Come_ , it prodded her, _come out, and talk to me. The strings vibrate and the fingers quest, and still they do not find their place!_ Her lips twitched into a slow, sleep-heavy smile, even as she groaned, thrusting her head beneath the pillow. It seemed a simple luxury to be safe, and rested, to feel the crisp spread of an unfamiliar bed beneath her cheek.

The music ground to a halt in a crunching roll of frustrated chords- then paused. A moment, and- _Liebesleid._ Molly sighed, basking in the warmth of the sweet tune. _Of course_. Of course he knew her favorite, this most lovely of pieces. The simple romanticism of the melody overwhelmed her, so that her eyes opened of their own accord as the implied harmonies drifted through her conscience. She lay there awhile listening, allowing the thoughts, suppressed for days, to float to the surface.

 _Father._

She flinched, as if struck.

 _You've not given him a second thought,_ the little voice told her reproachfully. She glanced into the corner of the room, as if by looking away her Father, and his plight, might simply vanish.

 _And what of Father? Does he truly deserve to be thought of, after what he has done to me, deliberately, knowingly?_

 _He is your Father._

She thrust the voice aside, and the music changed, reflecting her mood. One phrase begat another, in a string of Kreisler-Grieg-Brahms-Kreisler-Debussy. Paganini finally emerged, like a creature clawing from the deep; determined, purposeful. Snorting unceremoniously at his choice, Molly sat up, running a hand over her fraying braids. There seemed to be no better music suited to Sherlock than those devilish caprices, so demanding, so driven, so very multi-faceted.

 _His life will be forfeit._ Hadn't he said that? Hadn't Mr. Brook spoken those very words? And how true- _how true_ could they really be?

But the uneasy certainty sat in her stomach like a dull lump of ice. For if anybody could pursue such a threat out of pure spite, it would be he. How soon, she could not be sure; but his threats were real, and true as his vicious nature.

It irritated her to dwell on him, she realized; made her feel petulant, like a child. And, like a child that has come to a fateful, inevitable conclusion, she huffed, and threw back the coverlets. _I must tell Sherlock,_ she thought peevishly, and thrust her bare feet onto the floor, hardly wincing at the frigid wood. The myriads of clothing leant to her by Mrs. Hudson lay in neat piles upon the desk: blouses and skirts and fresh drawers, petticoats and chemises and her own discarded corset. She sighed, facing the looming heap of garments and the prospect of lacing herself into all the layers without the help of a maid. _One day_ , she thought as she tossed the nightdress off, _clothing will be obliged to become a simpler affair._

"Holmes," Watson's faint voice called over the music. The tremolos slid in under the door; the sound of Sherlock's footfalls was a comfortable pacing against the creaking floorboards. She drew the chemise over her head, and seized a petticoat from the pile of linens.

" _Holmes."_ Watson repeated again. A door opened, and the slap of paper was heard against the table. "These just arrived." There was a bite to Dr. Watson's words, a hint of acerbity that made her pause, her ears pricking.

"What of it?" Holmes groused over the sound of his violin, which was becoming increasingly metallic and bad-tempered. The slight rustle of fabric upon fabric was deafening as she inched closer to the door, slipping the stiff corset over her shoulders.

"There are _three_ ," Dr. Watson growled. A chair drew back, squealing its path across the wood. The corset's laces slipped in her hand.

"Very good, Watson- I see you have finally learned to count."

" _Why_ are there three." It was not a question. Shoes scraped, and tea sloshed, settling into a stained, much-loved cup. A final tug here, and here; her fingers pinched the laces together, the muscles of her arms aching distantly as she tied a final, neat knot.

"Well, I suppose you are right," Holmes replied after a moment. A roll of nonchalant pizzicato flew like a spring through the air. "We shan't be needing three tickets if you'll be standing guard at the dressing room. Send one back."

" _Sherlock,"_ Watson ground out.

"- I am very sorry, John, but you absolutely mustn't be present in the audience- it would leave far too much to chance. Though- my dear fellow, I had no idea you were so taken with the opera! We really must attend together more often. I hear there will be a splendid production of Parsifal come May- "

"You _cannot_ bring Miss Hooper."

Molly froze, the thick skirt dropping suddenly over her torso to rest at her hips. Holding her breath, she reached out a steady hand, easing the door open to the merest crack.

"I don't seem to recall asking your permission." The reply was flat, uninterested.

" _Madness."_ Watson muttered.

"I _beg_ your pardon?"

"I said it was _madness!_ " Watson suddenly shouted. "It is _madness and folly_ to bring the woman you… you… well, the woman you have formed an _attachment_ to, into the lion's den!"

"I have no intention of- "

"What can have possessed you to so lose your reason!"

"Mol- Miss Hooper, John, is a woman I deeply admire. _Deeply._ And yes, I won't deny it: I enjoy her company- so why shouldn't she come? Don't be so pessimistic- I am quite in control of my faculties and- what is this nonsense, anyhow? It's not like you. Have you had a bad egg?"

"It _is-_ it _is_ like me, to be the voice of reason to your- tomfoolery!" Watson abruptly heaved a sigh, and fell heavily into a chair. "Just- answer me this: why do you wish to bring her? She can serve no real purpose in this business, not _now_ \- it's not simply an investigation, and you know as well as I do that this may very well turn physical. By God, Holmes, she needs _rest!_ "

"Don't be ridiculous. She has gumption. "

" _Gumption_ will not suffice!"

"Well then allow me to lay it plain for you, since you clearly have difficulties in working it out for yourself. _Molly is not safe_. Not here, not anywhere, from her husband or _especially_ from Moriarty. Don't you think he knows we're on the scent? Do you think I would leave her here, _in the care of Mrs. Hudson_ , rather than have her by my side where I can see her, touch her, _know_ that she is safe? Tell me, dear friend, does this reasoning begin to penetrate into the hither-to-fore annexed regions of your brain? It is _my_ decision, _my_ prerogative, and if I should choose to bring her- "

"Bring me where?"

Both men started, Watson twisting in his seat to peer down the hall. Molly advanced into the sitting room, twisting the last button of her high collar securely into place, her cheeks red and flushed. "Bring me where, Mr. Holmes?" She demanded again, fixing him with a haughty stare as her hand raised to plant itself upon her hip.

He stared back at her, a coil of dark hair dipping over his brow. Tucking his violin casually into the crook of his arm, he brushed a thumb over the strings. They vibrated idly against his curled fingers. "Good morning, Miss Hooper," he said formally, though a hint of a smile curled the edge of his lips. "I trust you have slept well?"

"Very well, thank you," she replied stiffly. " _Bring me where?"_

Holmes cocked his head, and leaned forward, the window's light catching the instrument's magnificent, polished grain with the movement. "Molly," he said slowly, his voice careful, and rich with undertones. "Would you do me the honor of accompanying me to the opera?"

 **~0~0~**

The sky had darkened considerably as Dr. Watson pushed open the carriage door, stepping out into the frigid evening. A stage-hand lingered by the back wall of the theatre, polishing off the bitten nub of a cigarette with a cloud of acrid smoke. He threw it down finally, and spat, rubbing a meaty hand over his greasy cap. "Evenin'," he muttered, before sauntering off. Watson sniffed in distaste, then glanced back into the carriage.

"The stage door is just there," Holmes pointed. "-and her dressing room should not be difficult to find. She'll be waiting."

"I know." Said Watson austerely, grimacing up at his friend. "Be safe," he said after a moment, his gaze lingering on Molly before he set off into the dark, fingering what was surely a pistol in his pocket.

"Are you quite sure this is safe?" Molly muttered, watching Watson's retreating back as Holmes slammed the door and thumped the ceiling briskly.

"Why shouldn't it be?" he asked placidly. The carriage began again to roll, bringing them round to the front of the enormous theatre and into the long queue.

"Dr. Watson seems horribly displeased."

"He often is, it can't be helped. It's his very much in his nature, you know."

"But surely- "

"Miss Hooper," Holmes interrupted suddenly, "let me assure you: Dr. Watson will be quite safe. He is a vicious old bulldog, in truth- and neither will he let any harm come to Miss Adler. You and I, on the other hand, have a much broader task at hand."

"Yes, I know- _prevent a murder_ _from happening,_ in front of hundreds of people! Sherlock, you must know I trust you- and I do, truly, but- how are we to accomplish this? Dr. Watson was right- it is madness!"

"Nonsense!" He grinned merrily to himself, and hopped out of the carriage as it rolled to a final halt. "You must simply keep a weather eye," he whispered theatrically, tapping his nose as he helped her down.

"I don't see how that could help in the slightest!" She hissed, slipping an arm through his own as they joined the throng of people, the well-dressed and overly-dressed men and women clutching silken hand fans, little purses with little opera glasses peeking from their brims.

Sherlock sighed through his nose, and glanced down at her. "I am not so foolish, I swear it. Lestrade and his men lie in wait at the hotel, and Moriarty is not one to attempt an assassination without being a few feet, at the very least, from his prey. He enjoys the experience, he revels in the transition of life to death…". A young woman, her pale arms glinting in the glow of the lamps, looked suddenly askance at them, horrified. "Yes, in fact he _adores_ the process of strangulation, you know, all that squeezing and flailing about- and positively _loathes_ eavesdroppers. Why, I am sure it is the very worst trait of the accomplished Englishwoman!" The poor woman flushed deeply, and tugged at her husband's wrist frantically, dragging him off into the crowd. Sherlock chuckled emphatically, grinning down at her.

"That was not kind," Molly murmured, but could not help laughing herself.

"Trust me, Molly," he said earnestly. "I wish for you to enjoy yourself. I have given strict instructions to Miss Adler, as well as to Dr. Watson, and the others. If Moriarty wishes to make his move tonight, it will be at the hotel, and he will be foiled. There are too many people about."

"I trust you," she said simply, and the innocent smile she turned up to him was radiant. He studied her a moment, suddenly fearful as he looked down upon her. What if something _were_ to go wrong? Was this truly wise, bringing her here when that cabbie, undeniably Moriarty's henchman, had so plainly set the stakes?

"Is something wrong?" She asked after he had not responded, a furrow appearing between her brows.

"No," he said, shaking his head curtly. "No, nothing. Let us find our seats." From a battered leather pocketbook he produced two tickets, which he waved deftly under the nose of the usher before pulling her inside.

The theatre was magnificent: all gilt, and gold, and curlicued columns, plush velvet seats and polished wood floors. It took her breath away, and she paused a moment in the entrance before the jostling crowd pushed her forward. "It's beautiful," she breathed, running her hands along the seats. "Do you know, I've never been to the opera before. Oh, but Sherlock!" She exclaimed suddenly.

"Hm?" He responded distractedly, his eyes darting swiftly around the theatre.

"I look positively wretched! Just _look_ at all these women…" at that moment a young lady and her escort swept past, resplendent in fine, blue, twinkling silks. She laughed lightly as the woman's eyes lingered upon the hopelessly outdated dress Mrs. Hudson had given her. "I do not think I will ever look so lovely as the women do here!"

Holmes gave her a quick, appraising look, and glanced again at the tickets. "Nonsense. Fashion is a complete construct of society- it is completely useless, especially for any practical purpose. Your brain, your dexterity, your cleverness and wit- those are far more useful attributes in a woman. However, it does not hurt that your face and figure seem to be very fairly proportioned. Not to mention that hairstyle is quite fetching. Why are you gawping, Molly? Sit!" He barked, and duly seated himself beside her, his glance flicking every which way.

Their seats were close to the stage, close enough that the sunken orchestra pit was only a dozen paces away. "Not the best seats for sound, but it _is_ only Gluck," he muttered, craning his neck to peer into the pit.

"Thank you," she said softly, fidgeting with a stray thread that had escaped the edge of her glove.

"For what?" He asked distractedly, twisting awkwardly in his seat to gain a better view of the balconies.

"For- why, for your words, Sherlock, and for- for everything, all of this!"

"Think nothing of it," he murmured, flapping a hand in her direction as his eyes continued to race about the hall.

"I have a boon to ask."

"Hm?"

"Well- there is the matter of my Father- "

His face darkened immediately, as though a cloud had passed over it. He paused in his movement to look stonily at her. "What of him?"

"He is my _Father- "_

"And so? That particular familial tie has done neither him nor you an inch of good."

"And so he is my Father, whether or not it has done good or ill to me and- and I must beg your assistance, once again- "

"Out with it, Molly, this is no time for flowered speech. "

"Mr. Brook promised he would _swing for his sins_ \- whatever that means! And so- do you think…?"

He sighed, fixing her with hard look. "I highly doubt _Mr. Brook_ could ensure any such thing. I know, Molly," he paused, catching hold of her hand as she opened her mouth to protest. "I know he is a brute, and I swear I will look into the matter before any harm can befall your Father. But I also know this would require an interview with him, and with that _husband_ of yours- "

" _Don't_ call him that," Molly said sharply, twisting her hand from his grip. "He's not my husband- we haven't even- well- " she flushed, and looked away. He blinked- twice, four times- before he spoke again, his voice measured, and calm.

"Do you mean to tell me…"

"I don't wish to speak of it." She snapped, throwing him a glare. "Besides, I know this is not the time. But promise me…?"

He nodded succinctly, his expression yielding somewhat. Her hand found his, and squeezed gently. "I think it is about to begin," she said after a moment. The lamps began to fade as they were carefully extinguished, one by one.

"It is," he murmured. She turned to look at him, a smile softening her face. And as the orchestra erupted into sudden joyous sound, the hairs on the back of her neck began to prickle. She shivered, suddenly, as if a weighty gaze had captured her. Slightly, she twisted her head, throwing her glance to the many seats behind her, and up to the balcony. In the split-second before the golden light disappeared completely, she caught the briefest glimpse of a man, his hair red and fiery, his mouth twisted in distaste. Her heart leapt in her chest.

 _Soames._

No- _no,_ it could not be, for it was a mere trick of the light, and nothing more. She peered into the darkness, and saw nothing but the sparkling gaze of hundreds of people, their faces turned towards the stage where the heavy, ornate curtain drew slowly back. Breathing deeply through her nose, she settled herself, and slipped her hand again through Sherlock's arm.

The stage was laid in a sombre scene; the players wore mourning colors, and in the center a pedestal reared, upon which a woman lay, draped in a sheer, black material. Bitterly they sang, lamenting the death of pale, fair Euridice. But it was to Orfeo that Molly's eyes were drawn: on his head he bore a wreath, and a lyre was strung close to his back. He looked upon the audience, and his Euridice, and opened his mouth to sing. And from Irene Adler's mouth poured a rich, mellow sound; a voice full of tragedy and truth, and filled with melancholy. Never for a moment had Molly expected this from the woman she felt she had only vaguely met- and yet, it was difficult to see Miss Adler in the character at all. It was as if she had disappeared, leaving only the body in which Orfeo inhabited, bearing his sorrow forth on a wave of cresting sound.

The music became a slow lament for the dead, as Orfeo banished the mourners from the stage one by one, and lifted the shroud. He held Euridice to his breast, and sang desperately, kissing the brow of his lifeless wife. Something struck in Molly's soul, then- as if some tightly wound string had finally relaxed, finally given vent to the physical, and emotional, hurts that she had born for the better part of a year. The warm, dark timbre of Irene's voice struck some long-forgotten place in her heart, and urged it to heal. She sighed, tears pricking her eyes as she took in the scene. Time, she found, had ceased to hold meaning, as Orfeo raised his arms to the heavens, praying for the final miracle.

It was as Amor was lowered from the painted clouds, her voice light and gay and tinkling, that she caught it, from the corner of her eye. A blunt needle pricked at her heart, full of apprehension. She twitched slightly, and was not sure if she had seen anything at all- but the little needle would not be dislodged. Shifting slightly, she looked again into the balcony, where the men and women sat placidly, the only motion the flickering wave of a fan.

" _What did you see?"_ She startled, and found Sherlock staring intently at her, his cool eyes glinting in the half-light. "You saw something: what was it?"

"I- I'm not sure- " she began- but there! Her head snapped to the left: yes, _there_ , a shock of light, as if from a mirror, or the shine from a watch. Her ears pricked as Orfeo's voice faltered, quavering ever so slightly in the air. And as she turned back to the stage, she found that _Irene_ shone through Orfeo's mask. She had become a woman in man's clothes, the passion and despair drained from her face to show an expression of narrow-eyed wariness. The music continued, but her voice had become weak, tight; the performance was no longer that of sorrowful Orfeo but the watchful Irene Adler, nerves on end. And in turn Amor eyed her nervously, plucking her harp with restless, tremulous fingers. The conductor's head bobbed furiously, from Amor to Orfeo to the oboes and back again, the music increasing in tempo, teetering into recklessness. Euridice, limp and dead in Miss Adler's arms, squinted anxiously up at her- and again! The flash came, quick, and insistent- and the lifeless beauty was deposited unceremoniously back upon the pedestal with a sharp _crack_ , a shocked little 'Oh!'escaping her lips.

Irene stood abruptly, her mouth snapping shut as she glared into the audience. One step back she took, and then was gone. There was a shriek from the wings, a pounding of footsteps, the clanging squeal of something large overturned.

" _Irene!"_ Amor screeched, her smile transfixed upon her face, her eyes huge in her face. " _We've half the Act left!"_

The audience erupted into a tumult of whispers, growing in volume as Amor stared open-mouthed after Irene as Euridice leapt from her pedestal. The conductor flailed his arms frantically; the strings pulled apart from the winds, the brass burst into a clamorous roar, and a bizarre sort of march seemed to create itself through a frenzied chaos of bobbing scrolls and desperately whistling flutes.

Molly clutched the velvet back of the seat, craning her neck as the adrenaline began to pound through her. " _Sherlock- "_ she choked out- and found that he was _gone._ Something like babel had begun to break out, as the men surged to their feet in closely tailored suits, the women twittering like a flock of angry birds. She forced her way to the aisle, flicking out her sharp elbows at those that refused to make way, treading harshly on slippered feet.

"Outrageous!" Someone barked from behind her.

"Of all the unmannered, _impudent- "_

A man leapt to his chair, cupped his hands and roared, " _I'll have my money back!"_

And the audience clamored in like response- people began to climb over the barriers, and through the bursts of infernal guffawing and furious shouts, the golden clash of cymbals shook the air.

She shrieked as someone pushed past her, toppling her into an overfed toadstool of a woman, who scratched at her with purple satin gloves- and then he was there, tugging at her wrist, his eyes wild with excitement. Through the uproar, she could hear only the word " _…stage…!"_ Escape his lips. Her eyes flickered to the stage, at the curtains that hurried their way towards the center, and understood. Together they flew, tearing through the hysteria and up the small set of stage stairs.

"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!" Bellowed a fleshy man of medium size as he waddled out onto the stage, beads of perspiration dropping from his brow onto his moist upper lip. "THE OPERA IS OVER! WE REQUEST THAT YOU LEAVE THE THEATRE IN AN ORDERLY FASHION! MAESTRO- HACK OUT A MARCH!"

And with a wave of the Conductor's arm, the entire theatre erupted into madness, as if the devil himself had descended upon them.

 **~0~0~**

They tumbled through the depths of the theatre, past scowling stage-hands and heavy sand-bags, over coils of rope and sparkling clouds and hell-fires. Down a spiraling staircase they bolted, through a heavy door, past the halls lined with racks upon rack of costumes, the oil lamps gutting and sputtering as they passed. Demons and the dead threw their heads from the doors, gaping and pointing as they ran past. Together they bowled round a corner- and _bang!-_ a shot rang out, deafening in its proximity. Screams filled the corridor, and Molly was flung into something, or some _one_ , and together the three of them plummeted to the ground in a tangle of limbs and fists and coats.

" _Sherlock!"_ Dr. Watson yelled- and the someone was him, pulling the detective to his feet, his other hand holding high above them all a slightly smoking pistol. "My God- and Miss Hooper! Are you hurt? This blasted- !"

"Yes- yes!" She coughed, taking Sherlock's proffered hand as she stumbled to her feet. "What in- "

But Watson, his face drained and white as a sheet, dropped the pistol with a clatter. "I'm sorry- I'm sorry! God- Sherlock- you shouldn't have- "

But Sherlock seized his collar in his two hands, shaking him frantically. "Was there a man- _Moriarty_ \- did he- "

"Sherlock, I swear to you, _no one has entered or left this room!"_ Watson shouted, gesticulating wildly toward the room marked _Irene Adler_ on a little brass plaque. "I have not strayed, I swear it! And there are no windows- no hidden, what-have-you's, passageways- "

" _Damn_. She had no need of returning here, then- she must have left- "

"But what is this? What's happened- "

"Irene's fled, taken off like a shot- I expressly _told_ her to keep a level head! Damn and _damn_ the police, they are _completely_ useless!"

"I thought you said- "

"Do you take me for such a fool!" Cried Homes, whirling around and snapping up the pistol from the floor. "Of course there were police present, in plain-clothes- I would hardly allow this whole affair to go forth without extra precaution! _Come_ \- we must find her, before…" he swallowed, his eyes wide as he thrust a hand through his wild hair, then darted for the back entrance.

By the time they made their way out into the night, it had grown cold, and the sweat that stood out on Molly's brow burned in the icy wind. The horned moon raced in a transparent cloud, silvering the filling streets so that the people pouring from the theatre rippled and swayed like fish fighting a current.

"Now…?" Molly wheezed as she bent double, clutching at the corset that dug painfully into her sides.

"Now…" Sherlock began, a look of intense concentration furrowing his brow as his fingers pressed together. "She would not have walked, she's still in costume- too obvious. But she is a clever woman, and I would gladly place a bet that she took precautions for just such an occurrence- she will have returned to her rooms at the hotel, Lestrade and his men will protect her- she would not be so daft as to flee by herself from the country, unguarded."

"And _will_ she be safe?" Watson asked, the question hovering uneasily between them. Holmes looked at him with a glance heavy with unvoiced worry, his harsh breaths icing the air. Then he bounded into the street, flinging his arm wide. And as if from nowhere, a cab nearly ran him down, the horse screaming at his sudden appearance.

"Grosvenor Hotel- within the next half hour and there's a sovereign in it for you!" Holmes shouted. The cabbie's eyes widened as they scrambled in, slamming the door shut as soon as Molly's skirts were clear. The horse bolted, and the whip sang- and as Molly stared out into the night, a man stared up at her, his head cocked, and his gaze bold. His hair was a dull red gleam in the moonlight, his suit shabby- but it _was_ him, it _was_ Soames-

"What?" Sherlock barked, jostling her as the cab lurched recklessly forward.

"There was a _man- "_ But as she blinked, there was only the blur of wild-eyed women, and men shouting their displeasure into the night. "He's gone!" She gasped.

"Smartish, if you please!" Roared Holmes, hammering his fist against the ceiling trap. They plunged through the semi-darkness, and left the theatre-goers to their outrage, and the moon-soaked night.

 **~0~0~**

"Thank you, Inspector Lestrade," said Irene gratefully as he held the door open to her. She was windswept, and unspeakably tired; the wreath that had been fixed so firmly to her head now lay limp and bedraggled, hanging on by a single pin. She reached up tiredly, wincing as she plucked it away.

"The least I could do, Marm," Lestrade replied, grinning bashfully at her. "Raimund here had a good look about the place just now. We'll look after you."

Raimund bobbed his head nervously. "Not a soul in there, Miss," he agreed.

Irene smiled tightly. Though her breathing had finally settled into some sense of normality, her skin was cold and clammy from the biting air, and covered with a sickly layer of dried sweat. She wished for nothing more than a good, thorough wash; to strip the ragged costume from her body, and to sleep. But she knew sleep would not come easily to her that night, as frayed as her nerves were. She sighed, and turned away from the two men who watched her hopefully. "Again, thank you. I've had quite a fright, and should very much like to rest. When Mr. Holmes comes- as I'm sure he will- please inform him that I have retired for the evening, and should _not_ like to be disturbed, least of all by him. Good evening, gentlemen. "

"Good evening, Marm," Inspector Lestrade replied, tipping his cap and lowering his eyes as she shut the door behind her. The key turned in the lock with a scrape. The men shot curious glances at the strange woman they had been called upon to protect, trading smirks as she disappeared. Slumping to the ground, they arranged themselves in as alert a fashion as could be procured from the upright police core.

Inside, Irene took a steadying breath, leaning her hand against the dresser as she closed her eyes for a brief moment. _Safe._ She might kill Holmes _herself_ for the fright he had given her- but then again, she _was_ safe, and alone, with half a dozen men posted at her door. She silently thanked him for going to at least _some_ sort of precaution. For when she had seen that bright flash quiver like a moonbeam over her face, her heart had skipped a beat. It could have simply been a pocket watch, or a lady's small mirror catching the light- but when it had come again, shining in her eyes, darting in and away again, she had seen the man plainly. That shock of red hair was a beacon in the dark, and a plain signature. She never had known the man's name- she scarcely had reason to ask- but that slinking, creeping creature was Moriarty's man; she would have known him in her sleep. Closing her eyes, she shuddered silently, and breathed deeply through her nose. Fleeing had been instinctive: she was not the sort to stand idly by, and wait for the axe to drop. Tonight she would take her safety, sleep, and prepare for the dawn.

She crossed the sitting room to the wash stand in the bedroom, stripping the crumpled costume from her body as she did so and donning a fresh dressing gown. Pouring water from the pitcher into the basin, she began to scrub arduously at her face, as if by doing so she could cleanse herself of the night's events. The water was cool against her naked skin, the heavy layers of stage makeup lifting away with every careful touch of her fingers. She stared at her face in the dark mirror, carefully wiped at her dripping face. One side, then the other. Her skin was no longer young, a gentle web of wrinkles beginning to form at the corners of her eyes and mouth.

The shadows shifted in the mirror; convulsed, and became physical form. A cold hand gripped at Irene's heart, caressing it with tender fear. She watched, for a moment that lasted a lifetime, as the revolver twitched and flashed in his hand. He sat, patiently, with his ankle upon his knee. She reached for the little jar of cold cream that sat upon the vanity, and unscrewed the lid.

"I had a feeling you might be here," she admitted. She dipped a finger into the jar, and smoothed the cool paste over her cheekbones. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Oh, I thought I might drop in, congratulate the world's foremost contralto on another splendid opening," he replied smoothly, favoring her with a smile. "Well done, indeed, Miss Adler,"

"On the contrary, Mr. Moriarty," Irene eyed him in the mirror, one delicate brow arched. "It seems that you could not let me have my night."

"Not at all, my dear. You would, of course, have done splendidly had you continued, but now- why, just think of the papers tomorrow! _Famed Diva Flees the Opera… found dead in her hotel rooms the next morning_. I should think the press might fairly wet themselves," He stood swiftly, and in a moment his hands graced her shoulders, his fingers dancing against bare skin as the revolver pressed its cold metal into the nape of her neck.

"I could scream, you know- they're just outside the door," she murmured.

His black eyes caught hers in their silky gaze. "You could, Miss Adler- but you know as well as I that you would be dead before the words left that rather exquisite mouth of yours." His touch seared her skin as he leant close, his breath hot, like a lover's, against her ear. "Lovely man, that Inspector, isn't he? Hardly the sharpest tack in the box, didn't even bother to check the other balconies… not all men are born to cleverness, you see." He breathed, and smiled at her reflection. In the semi-light of the oil lamp, a thin, black mark stretched across what might have been a handsome face, red and puckered at the edges as if it had been freshly cut. Slowly, she reached a trembling hand upwards, his eyes watching her every moment in the mirror.

"And where, Mr. Moriarty," she whispered, tracing the edge of the cut with her perfectly manicured fingertips, "did you get that?" The twinkle in his eye was snuffed immediately, his mouth set into a thin, flat line as he pressed the revolver more firmly into her neck.

"Let us find a more private room." He said tersely. The smooth _click_ of the revolver as it was cocked was the only sound she could hear, stretching on, reverberating in her mind. " _Now,"_ he growled. She stood, and her legs all but crumbled beneath her as she took one, then another step forward, the cool metal a constant reminder at her back. But as they passed into the bathroom she whirled with a sudden cry, knocking his hand aside as she eagerly sprayed a bottle of her perfume that had been stowed in the sleeve of her dressing gown into his face, her thumb depressing the nozzle as many times as she was able. A small, futile gesture- but it caught him full in the face, and he gasped, choking, as the sweet, strong mist fell upon them both, reeking of sophistication and elegance. His eyes squeezed shut for the merest moment- but it was enough, as she knocked the revolver to the tiled floor. She opened her mouth to scream- and gagged, as he forced her back against the doorframe, one hand clutching at her open mouth while the other seized her wrist. She struggled against him, struggled to breathe _,_ her fisted hand pounding a feeble tattoo against his arms and chest- but he squeezed, and _squeezed_ , until her hand was forced to open. The bottle tumbled to the ground, burst with a tinkling _crash-_ and nothing but a garbled shout left the web of his hands against her face. Glass spilled into the flesh of her palms, the blood mingling brightly against her pale skin and his.

"Miss Adler? Miss Adler!" A panicked voice called, echoed by a pounding at the door. "Are you alright in there, Marm?"

"Tell him you dropped your perfume." Moriarty hissed furiously. " _Tell him,_ or I'll kill you here and now."

Her lungs burned, the sides of her visioning blackening with the bruising grip over her nose and mouth. She stared wildly into his eyes, attempting a nod. And he let go of her just as suddenly as he had pinned her, stooping swiftly to collect the revolver from where it had fallen. She coughed violently, nearly bending double as she clutched at the doorjamb- " _Now."_ The revolver rested lightly against her forehead, the hammer drawn and cocked.

"I- yes!" She called in a high, strangled voice, her eyes never leaving Moriarty's dark ones. "I- I've only dropped my perfume bottle, it's nothing!"

"Would you like me to call the maid, Marm!" Lestrade shouted through the door.

The revolver, with it's lovely mother-of-pearl grip, traced its tender way down to nestle in the hollow beneath her eye. "N-no, please don't, it- it's nothing, really! Thank you, Inspector!"

Her heart leapt like a caged beast within her chest. They faced each other, even as the carefully constructed silence grew around them.

" _Why_?" The sound pushed itself finally from her mouth on the barest puff of air, as if any movement, of her lips, or breath, might make that word her last.

"Why?" Moriarty repeated, and frowned. He paused, considering. "It's nothing personal, my dear- please understand me! I personally find you to be a marvelous specimen of femininity. A bit… _gauche_ , perhaps- but then, no one is perfect. I am sorry to kill you, Irene,"

"No you're not." She said flatly. She felt empty, and somehow unreal, as if this were _not_ her, standing here- not her at all. He grinned, wolfishly.

"Ah- yes, you're right. I'm not, really. But you oughtn't to have gotten involved with Sherlock at all, you know- he's a rotten sort."

"Sherlock is a good man." She spat, with sudden grit. _Has it come finally to this, my dear Mr. Holmes?_ His face flashed before her eyes; his gaze keen, and calculating. He had been lost to her, even in those early days…

"Ah," Moriarty sighed, his head cocked and his smile crooked. One step closer he took, so that the revolver pressed itself hard enough into her flesh to bruise. "You think so, do you? Oh- oh, I _see-_ you might have loved him, is that it? Well then, tell me- did he ever mention his sister? Eurus? No… no, I thought not. He killed her, you know. It was _all_ his fault. Hasn't told a soul about _that_ one, I'll wager. Then there's the issue of my erstwhile wife… perhaps you know her: Mrs. Margaret Brook. Although I believe she goes by Miss Hooper these days…ah, I see that _does_ ring a bell." Irene's mind swam in a sharp, static blur, registering almost nothing but the cold metal circle that lodged itself against her cheekbone. She did not breath. "I suppose it's not your fault that he found you so very… _intriguing,"_ Moriarty continued. "He keeps your secrets, holds you in high regard… he is your friend, and was, perhaps, something more. And so it is with my sincerest apologies, Miss Irene Adler…" his right hand came to caress the silken cleft of her throat, to curve around its white length. "…I regret that it will be a true pleasure."

The revolver dropped from his hand as his palms cradled her neck, tightening, and tightening, as he pressed his thumbs deeply against her. She might have struggled; she did not know. But he held her tenderly to himself, crooning softly, sweetly, against her upturned face. The darkness crept in, embracing her; an old friend that claimed her as its own. _Curious,_ it was, _curious,_ the way his eyes seemed to shimmer like two round, glowing orbs, as the room began to fade, into the tremulous, gutting light.


	22. The Many Forms of Truth

**A/N: I'm back! I worked like crazy to get this out to you before I went on vacation- needless to say, if the next chapter never comes, blame the bears who probably got into my tent :) Thank all of you amazing people who read, review, follow, favorite- you're all amazing! Every comment makes my day, and I truly appreciate your thoughts! Many thanks to likingthistoomuch, as per usual, for putting up with my natterings and generally being an awesome human being. Ok, enjoy!**

 **XXII. The Many Forms of Truth**

The light was faint; a strange mixture of lamplight and moonlight that swept along the walls of the close bathroom in a long, quivering V. The room swam in semi-darkness, the silken locks of her hair sweeping against his face as her head lolled forward against him. He held her tenderly to his chest, cooing and rocking as he lowered her to the smooth-tiled floor. Her scent filled his nostrils; the deep bouquet of the rose, and the sharp tang of fear blending to create the headiest of perfumes. "There, there," he whispered breathlessly, the thrill of a perfect kill still coursing through his veins. She stared sightlessly at him, her eyes blue, but empty; like the narrow eye of a needle, like the entrance to the bottomless well of all darkness and shadow. He positively vibrated with the pleasure of it, and ached all the more for the release of a task completed, in all its beauty and precision. _Yes,_ he thought, as he ran a long finger down her bruised cheek, _she is the finest of prizes._ Her skin, pale as a fish's belly, gleamed with white phosphorescence in the gloaming. His pulse quickened; there was light, light enough to excite him, to steal a life- but not enough to finish his business. One last hungry glance he cast at her, before he stood, and lit the lamp, and settled into his careful, rapturous work.

 **~0~0~**

Inspector Lestrade fumbled with the key in the lock, twisting the thin spike of metal into the door with little success. "Damn and _damn_ again," he muttered feverishly, rattling the key furiously. It refused to budge, and remained taunting, and unyielding. Raymond hovered over him, pounding a rain of blows into the wood with his fist.

"Miss Adler!" He shouted, panic coloring his words. "I beg you, open the door!"

"Stop it, boy," Lestrade growled, yanking again at the key that would not be budged. "Of all the _blasted-!"_ He suddenly slammed his fist into the wood, grunting in pain. "Your hammering does us no good!" He glared up at the young officer, as if the predicament they found themselves in was his fault entirely.

"Neither will that key of yours," Raymond retorted, adding a half-hearted " _Sir,"_ as the older man glared up at him.

"Lestrade!" The battering of feet sounded abruptly as a door swung open from down the corridor and crashed indelicately into the wall. "Get away from that, you'll break the lock! Away!" Holmes shouted, pointing a menacing finger at the Inspector as he charged at him. Dr. Watson followed at a fierce clip, while Molly trailed after them, stumbling from the stairwell a moment later as she clutched her side.

Lestrade backed away immediately, leaving the key wedged in the door. "Is Miss Adler within?" Demanded Holmes, shoving Raymond aside as he bent to inspect the lock for himself.

"She's not replied," replied Lestrade heavily. "We heard glass breaking not ten minutes past, and though she made it clear that she did not want to be disturbed- by a maid, or least of all by you, Holmes," he said, pointedly, his mouth twisting in thought, "-we'd just knocked again, thinking it ill-advised to have something sharp lining the floor, and not a proper broom to sweep it away. But now she will not answer!"

"I pray she may yet still have voice to do so," muttered Holmes. He wrapped his handkerchief about the key and wrenched it from the lock in one swift movement, catching at the wall as he staggered back. The key lay twisted in his palm, black with oil and bearing clear marks of tampering. "Why were you not in there with her!" He exclaimed fiercely, throwing the offending object to the ground and pulling from his inner pocket his roll of picking utensils.

"I did not think it would be proper- "

"You did not _think,"_ spat Holmes, "and a woman's life my very well be at stake!" Inserting the pick quickly, he twitched it from side to side with a practiced hand and, within the span of a minute, the lock _snicked_ gently. The door swung open silently and he stood, pausing, his eyes darting across the inner room for any sign of forced entry. There were none. "Miss Adler!" His voice was harsh to his ears, as if some deep and violent chill had settled upon him. There was nothing in the foyer; and in the next room the bed was large, and plush- in short, neatly made, and not yet touched. The vanity sported an uncovered jar of cold cream, lonely in the center of the neat table. Dipping his finger into the fat candle that stood upon the side table, he found that it had been recently snuffed.

"Light the lamps," ordered Lestrade tersely, as Dr. Watson, Molly and two of his men followed him into the room.

"Wait," said Holmes quickly, putting out a hand as he swung round, his eyes narrowing. "There's one already lit." A sliver of light shone wanly from beneath the bathroom door, almost invisible with the illumination from the corridor. Slowly, the dread growing in his belly like a cancer, he moved forward- and felt the crunch of glass beneath his feet. The shards glittered red in the faint light, rubies adorning his every step. "Keep Molly back." He said sharply, staring down at the fragments littering the ground.

Molly glanced up at Lestrade uneasily. He shrugged back at her helplessly, as if he, too, was tied to Holmes's word.

"Sherlock- " she began, moving forward instinctively

"Wait," whispered Lestrade, throwing up his hand to stop her. "Let him… just, let him."

Holmes paused at the door, his hand splayed pale and open against the wood before he pushed it open. And before him lay a woman of precisely crafted beauty; her hair dark and tumbling, her skin a creamy white. The golden shadows played against her perfection in that close globe of light, dancing and winking as she herself would never do again. His fingers tightened convulsively into a white-knuckled fist as his breath was paralyzed in his throat. One, then two steps more he forced upon himself before he was lost to the heavy gazes behind him. He found himself, somehow, upon his knees beside her, unable to move, to reach forward, to close her pale, accusing eyes. " _Aah…"_ he croaked, for that was the only sound that he seemed able to form. His fingers curled over his mouth, digging sharply into his cheeks, and within his lungs seemed to stretch unbearably, crawling up his throat with a wretchedness that was beyond words.

His mind reeled back in a tight loop of all possibilities, all probabilities, all the events that had slipped through his fingers like so many grains of sand. _What have I done?_ The words closed around him like a vice, and he choked, his fingers digging into his limp curls with frantic tugs.

"No, I _must,"_ Molly's voice drifted through the open door, high and trembling. "I can help- "

"Miss Hooper, I really must insist you stay with me- whatever is behind that door- "

" _No,"_ he breathed, the world coming back to him in a flurry of sight and sound.

"Molly," Dr. Watson put in, his tone firm, "please understand- "

"Get her out of here," he muttered in a low voice, staggering heavily to his feet. He clutched at the door jamb, steadying the limbs that had turned to jelly beneath him. Molly's face was white and frightened, her eyes wide enough to reflect Irene's pale, glistening feet in the lamplight.

"GET HER OUT OF HERE!" He bellowed suddenly, and she stepped back, horrified at the venom in his voice. "I don't want- she doesn't need- " he babbled, his face slack and untamed as he scrubbed a shaking hand across his face.

Dr. Watson stepped forward first, pulling his hands from where they clung to his skin. "Sherlock, " he began hesitantly.

" _Don't_ touch me," Holmes snapped, pulling away. "She's, _dead, s_ he doesn't need to _see- "_ he stopped abruptly, staring across the darkened room. A faint, chilly breeze flowed over them, lifting the dark hairs from his forehead. The drapery sighed from the large French doors, fluttering inwards on silent breath. "You absolute fools," he breathed, crossing the room and yanking the hangings aside. The doors were slightly open, a pick wedged limply into the lock. Stepping out into the balcony, his hands had no sooner brushed the rail than they came away with a crumbling of dirt. Above him, another balcony loomed, no more than ten feet between. "Child's play," he announced, as Watson edged out beside him. "I should not have let her stay here." Dr. Watson said nothing, but clapped a heavy hand to Holmes's shoulder, peering out into the night alongside him. The street lamps winked ruefully at them, their eyes pale orbs of flame. Holmes leaned forward, squinting into the dark.

"What is it?" Watson wondered. "Could he still be- "

"No. But, all the same... _by the pricking if my thumbs..."_

"Wh- " began Watson, but before the words could escape his mouth, Holmes whirled on him, clasping his arm and speaking low.

"See to Miss Adler- all the information you can collect. This will not end well, and Molly need not be present when things turn sour. Ah, Miss Hooper!" He exclaimed, striding from the balcony to collect her from Lestrade's watch. "You must forgive me. And I insist that you must leave now. Lestrade, please see to it."

"But Sherlock!" Molly burst out incredulously. "You- you _brought_ me here- "

"Yes, and now I see I was mistaken to have done so. Earlier tonight," he said, lowering his voice, "you said you trusted me. Is this still the case?"

"Yes, but- "

"Good. Please, Molly- I will join you at Baker Street before the night is through, I am- marginally certain of it."

" _Marginally- "_

"Holmes!" Watson called out, appearing at the door of the bathroom. "You ought to look at this,"

"A moment," replied Holmes, glancing from Molly's outraged expression to Lestrade's uneasy one. "See her safely home." He said, his brow arched pointedly. And with that he swept away, leaving her fuming, a little knot of what she was quickly recognizing as fear budding in her breast.

"Miss Hooper..." Inspector Lestrade began, having the grace to look abashed.

"I'll go," she said quietly, looking over her shoulder a final time before leading the way into the corridor. Holmes gifted her with the smallest of smiles before he, too, turned away.

"Well then, Watson?" He asked briskly, pointedly ignoring the body of Irene Adler lying across the floor.

"You've scarcely seen a thing, have you?" Asked Watson in a low voice. After a moment, Holmes raised his eyes to his friend.

"In truth, John," he whispered, "I find I am…compromised. I cannot look past her eyes. They know... they _accuse..."_

John reached out, squeezing firmly at his friend's shoulder. "Let me." Holmes inclined his head briefly, staring down at Irene's uncovered feet, and the glittering sea of glass that shone near.

"She has lost her tongue," Watson said after a moment, crouching near her head. "Like all the others... precise cuts, little blood save that which has pooled in her mouth... and the two drops on her cheek. Do you suppose he is keeping them? The tongues, I mean- and to what purpose?"

"Purpose? Something fanatical, make no mistake." Holmes snorted. "What else?"

Watson glanced up at him, grimacing. "Well- it seems likely that the glass came from a little perfume bottle- yes, see, there is the nozzle- and the whole place reeks of roses. And... does she not seem... _arranged,_ to your eyes? Lain out just so? ...Holmes?"

For the detective, it seemed, had overcome his momentary weakness, and had silently raised his gaze to the figure before him. Watson had closed her eyes, and they no longer stared up at him, accusing him from just out of reach. Slowly he reached out, his fingers outstretched to touch the right hand, folded as it was against the hard floor- and with one quick movement, he flipped it over.

And in her hand, coiled into a matted nest, was a curl of hair. It had gone brittle with age, and as he lifted it, the faded, greasy blue ribbon that secured it fell limply to the side. The flash of recognition felled him like a bolt of lightning as it crashes into a tree, and in a moment she was there before him: _Eurus._ Lovely little Eurus, clever little Eurus, manipulative, awful, _cruel_ little Eurus. And he was there too, they the heathen children, squatting by the cool, burbling Reichenbach stream. They examined the vegsívir between them, crowing in delight as Jim crept miserably through the brush- he was coming-

Molly's cry shattered his reverie, sharp and panicked. For a moment he was disoriented, rooted to the spot by the memories that threatened to claim him. But the marked clap of John's hand against his arm, pulling him upright, drew him abruptly into the present. Watson's eyes met his own, wide with alarm.

"He is faster than I could have possibly imagined- John, the noose tightens!" Holmes gasped, clutching at Watson's sleeve.

"I _demand_ you release me!" Shrieked Molly, and her words were followed by the unmistakeable sounds of a scuffle. In a flash the men were out the door, barreling their way into the thick of the commotion.

"Be reasonable, gentlemen!" Lestrade shouted, his voice cracking in panic. "What reason do you have, to treat her so? She has done nothing- unhand her!"

Holmes shoved his way through the line of men that faced each other, scowling furiously. "Ah, so it's you, Gregson. And to think, I half expected the man himself to show his face- but no, a minion is to be _expected,"_ he spat. Molly was held by a young man in uniform, struggling though he had pinioned her arms tightly behind her back. And Inspector Gregson, of Scotland Yard, stepped forward to meet him, his lip curling under his yellow, drooping moustache.

"So good of you to join us, Mr. Holmes," remarked Gregson in a voice that slid like oil over water.

"I really must insist you release Miss Hooper; this behavior is undignified, even for you." Holmes cut in coolly, his eyes flashing fire.

"Oh, on the contrary," replied Gregson, a hint of glee coloring his words. From within his surcoat, decorated with his rank at Scotland Yard, he produced with a flourish a folded, official-looking document. "You see, I am entirely within my rights- for I have here a warrant, for the arrests of both Mrs. Margaret Brook and Mr. Sherlock Holmes. And- why, how very convenient, for I had at first thought to claim the one, but not the other- and yet here you stand! Petrelli, kindly arrest Mr. Holmes."

"By no means will you touch me," snarled Holmes immediately as the man stepped forward, shooting him such a ferocious glance that he paused in his step, looking back in consternation at his captain. Gregson waved him back impatiently with a thick hand. "Time enough, in a moment," he murmured.

"But this is outrageous!" Lestrade burst out, stepping forward and pointing an accusing finger in Gregson's face. "On whose authority do you make these charges?"

"Oh, the highest, I assure you. And- yes, here it is, you see, I'd almost forgotten-" and out another document flew, accompanied by an enormous, wet-lipped grin. "You've been relieved of service, Lestrade!" He cried merrily, waving the notice under the Inspector's nose. "The Yard has no need of you anymore, and neither have we. On your way, then!"

"I don't believe it." Insisted Lestrade, crossing his arms. "And I will not deign to look at that _rag._ "

"Mr. Lestrade!" Continued Gregson, raising his voice as the humor left his eyes. "it would do you well to leave. _Now_ , sir, or I will have you removed by force."

"You forget I have men of my own!" Lestrade growled, stepping closer so that he stood nose to nose with the man. A flurry of pistols were held suddenly aloft, and the sound of a dozen hammers being drawn back rang through the corridor.

"Stand down!" Roared Holmes, whirling on each and every one of them. "And _you,_ all of you, forget that we are standing in a tightly enclosed corridor, where any shot fired is like to ricochet off the walls and hit any one of us! Surely the collective stupidity of Scotland Yard cannot be so deafeningly great! Lestrade- " he seized the man by the arm, yanking him back from Gregson's sneering face- "Lestrade came with me, and is in my hire- and he is decidedly _not_ leaving."

"But let us get to the crux of the matter." Added Watson pointedly, stepping up next to his friend so that the three men stood shoulder to shoulder, a line of menacing solidarity against their foe. He fingered his pistol loosely in his hand, ready at the slightest provocation to fire. "Tell me," he began calmly, "how could you _possibly_ have a warrant for arrest, if the murder has only just been committed within the last half hour?"

"Ah, so there was a murder! Miss… Irene Adler, yes?" Gregson pulled open his papers, examining them with mock severity. A glance into Watson's shocked expression told him all he wished to know, and he grinned, refolding his warrants and stuffing them unceremoniously into his pocket. "Not only have I found the both of you just where you were meant to be, but the woman is dead, just as _she_ was meant to be. I've never been much for the opera myself- though I hear she has a lovely singing voice. Ah- _had_ , as it were."

"You can't be serious!" said Holmes slowly, loosing his grip on Lestrade as he squinted into Gregson's face. "We've only just discovered the fact for our- _ah,"_ he stopped abruptly, a slow and silent grin blooming across his face, his eyes somehow bright, and knowing.

"What? What is it?" Watson demanded insistently.

"It has nothing to do with _murder_ , John," he murmured, glancing at the Inspector, who was decidedly non-plussed. "And it has everything to do with _revenge._ Gregson has no reason to love me, or Lestrade- and doubtless he hasn't taken a liking to yourself either." He glanced deliberately at the pistol still clinging to Watson's grip, smirking. "So he endeavors to put us all in our place by allowing us to spend a night, or fifty, in a cell. Lestrade gets knocked down a peg or two for employing my services, but no real harm done as, clearly, there are about a dozen witnesses that will back our claim. But how were you re-instated, I wonder? Whose hand do you follow… and how does Miss Hooper play into this mess?"

"Ah yes, the inimitable Miss Hooper, of which we have all, doubtless, heard so much! I suppose he means you, Mrs. Brook?" Gregson drawled, glancing carelessly at Molly.

" _Miss Hooper_ will do," she said tersely. The color rose in her face as comprehension dawned over her, and she met his gaze furiously. "I do not count myself as wed to that vile- that _evil- "_

"Yes, yes, that will do, Mrs. Brook! You consider yourself above the eyes of the law, I see! Well then, I've a message for you: your _husband_ sends his most esteemed regards and, though he wishes you had not taken up _quite_ so publicly with Mr. Holmes, he is prepared to forgive you- that is, if you don't swing for your crimes first."

"I have done nothing!" Molly gasped, turning white with fear.

"Is that so, Mrs. Brook? Conspiring with your lover to murder his former mistress? It seems like no empty threat to me!" Chortled Gregson as his men roared with laughter.

"Enough of this!" Shouted Watson, raising his pistol, though his hand shook with rage. "Release her- you have precisely _no_ proof- "

"Good God," Holmes breathed, his eyes darting fervently from one face to another. "Don't you see? The _which_ of it, the _why and how_ of it do not matter in the slightest. What _does_ matter is the Commissioner's signature on those papers, and the fact that we are outnumbered. It's _Moriarty_ , John! He's simply getting us out of the way, eradicating any possibility of our catching up to him. Gregson, who the Devil is pulling your strings? Who wields this much power over the Commissioner?"

Gregson shrugged nonchalantly, his eyes twinkling. "Mr. Brook has been a good friend to me, I cannot deny it. So it would do you well, Mr. Holmes, never to think of mocking me again, either in public or private!"

Holmes's eyes widened at the statement, his mouth falling slightly open as he shot a sharp glance at Molly. "Mr. Brook?" He said quietly, then narrowed his eyes, shaking his head roughly as if would dispel the cobwebs from it. "Never mind- a moment to parlay, Inspector Gregson, if you would be so kind."

"Take all the time you need!" Exclaimed Gregson jovially, straightening the edge of his greasy surcoat. "We're in no rush- I've already seen to your cell myself." He winked, puffing his chest as his men muttered their approval.

Holmes wasted no time, drawing Lestrade and Watson back with him. "John- " he said urgently, "get Molly out of here, by whatever means necessary- she is his next target, there can be no doubt of it now. Lestrade and his men and I will hold them at bay, at least for the moment; that should be enough time to slip away- "

Watson snorted, his mustache twitching as he quirked a wry grin. "It's not likely, my friend." A glance of steely determination passed between himself and Lestrade.

"Wh-" Began Sherlock, in some alarm- but it was too late. John had already pushed past him, drawing his fist back and, in two striding steps, connected it with a sharp _crack_ into Gregson's over-prominent nose. Instantly Gregson's men were upon him, though not before Lestrade had entered the melee, baying like a hound leading the charge. His men followed without hesitation, howling their agreement as they kicked and pummeled and bloodied faces.

Molly, never one to let an opportunity slip by, quickly elbowed her captor in the stomach with her sharp little elbow. The man heaved, and released her suddenly. " _You-!"_ He wheezed, but she ground her heel into his foot and leapt away, shrinking into the wall as she looked desperately for an exit. "Sherlock!" She yelled, as his curly head disappeared beneath a punch. He popped up, turning to glance at her- and was caught in the cheek by his opponent's fist. She let out a shriek, covering her mouth with her hands as he directed his own punch into the man's thick neck.

"What in God's name were you thinking!" He shouted to Watson. He kicked forcefully into the man's kneecaps, and down he went, disappearing into a storm of feet and noise.

"I was thinking there was no chance in hell I'd go down to this lunatic without a fight!" Watson whooped back. His grin was blood-stained and wild, and completely thrilled. "Now take Molly and go, for Christ's sake! Vatican cameos! _Vatican cameos!_ "

Holmes didn't need telling twice. Leaving the fallen man with another kick for good measure, he bounded over him, running like a hare down the corridor. "Let's go!" He barked, catching up Molly's hand as he swept past. She gasped and stumbled, nearly tripping over her long skirts.

"Blast!" She wailed, looking down at the ruined dress, tangling in her heels. Sherlock bent, and ripped the material quickly away, hurling it to the ground.

" _Open fire!"_ Gregson's voice suddenly bawled, and a pistol shot rang out.

"Molly, come _on!"_ cried Sherlock, and off they leapt, round the corner and down the circling servant's passage. They rushed down a level, skipping steps as another shot ripped through the air.

"He's mad!" She gasped hoarsely, feeling the pinch of her corset begin to give way to a full-blown fire in her sides.

"He is- and remind me to have very serious conversation with you about your husband!" Sherlock bellowed back. A shout behind them, echoing through the stairwell informed him they were not alone even as he glanced over his shoulder. Three of Gregson's men clattered down the stairs after them, their pistols twisting madly in their fists.

"This way!" He shouted, tugging again at her hand. Out they barreled into a back alley, lit with only a thinly wavering street lamp at one end. On he pulled her, as they twisted their way through winding, half-lit streets, the cold biting at their faces. A cluster of questionably sober men peered at them curiously, pausing as they tore past. "I'll take _that_ ," Sherlock exclaimed in a moment of inspiration, wrenching a bottle from a grizzled man's fist and hurling it behind them. It hit one of their pursuers squarely, shattering over the alley in a rain of alcohol and broken glass. An indignant roar rose up, but on they pushed, the thunder of feet behind them pausing only slightly.

The fire in Molly's lungs began to ignite, scorching her throat, her whole body searing in pain as the first rollings of sweat dripped into her eyes. "I… _can't!"_ She gasped. A shot whizzed past, and she cried out, redoubling her efforts.

"We're going to _die_ if you can't pick up the pace a bit!" Sherlock shouted- but he slowed his pace for the merest second, scanning the rooftops above them. "We've got to go up," he decided.

" _Up?_ " She gasped. "What- look out!" She shrieked as she glanced over her shoulder. Quick as a cat she seized his lapel, dragging him into the shadow of an awning. Not a moment later a window burst where they had been only moment's before. Across the street their adversary stood, pausing to take aim-

"Quick!" He panted, and with an almighty shove at the door behind them, they burst inside, knocking over the wizened old woman that had just made to open it. She howled curses at them, but upwards they surged, Molly's heels pounding a thudding, painful tattoo into the steps. Children squalled as doors flew open, and a heavy skillet crashed past them as a girl screeched obscenities into the increasing madness.

Finally they burst out onto the roof, and Molly heaved in the night air, filled with the twinkling lights of London. She might have found it beautiful, if the little contents of her stomach had not chosen to expel themselves at that moment. Heaving wretchedly, she clutched at the hard brick ledge of the roof. Sherlock slammed the door behind them, bolting it quickly before he hurried to her. "Look at me," he commanded, taking her face in his hands. Trembling, she wiped her mouth with a damp sleeve before meeting his eyes. He took her in, nodded crisply, and held her to himself for a brief moment. "We're not done yet," he murmured, glancing over the edge of the roof. "I doubt we've lost them… where the _hell_ is Archie?" Releasing her, he grimaced, burrowing his hands into his hair as he paced, taking in their options.

"How are we going to get down?" She asked in a small voice, following his glance downward. Her stomach roiled within her, and she fought the urge to heave once more.

He wasn't listening, but had stopped abruptly at the corner of the roof, looking out into the streets. " _Damn_ the boy! I _distinctly_ told him… right." He said, visibly steeling himself. "Molly?"

"I'm fine," she called, putting more strength into her words than she felt.

"Good. Because we're going to jump."

Her eyes became round in her head. "Oh, _no,_ Sherlock…" she moaned, looking over the edge. But before she could protest further, something slammed against the roof door, it's wood shuddering beneath a roiling weight.

"No time to argue- they'll be through that in a moment, the bolt's barely the size of a toothpick. Come on!" And he seized her, hopping swiftly onto the low ledge.

"Sherlock, no!" She wailed- but he turned, pointing at the next building, perhaps a foot's leap to the next roof over. Even a person as small as she could jump that distance with no great effort, but the thin strip of alley loomed dark and empty, a sudden yawning maw that whispered to her. A _crash_ sounded behind her- and Sherlock suddenly seized her, half jumping, half throwing her across the way. She screamed as the ground fell away, her legs floundered in the open air- and she slammed into the ground, ripping her petticoats to ribbons and her palms to bloody shreds.

"Molly!" She looked round, pushing herself painfully upright as her senses returned to her. The wind had been knocked from her breast, and it took a moment of confusion and absolute desperation to breathe before she recognized that Sherlock was not with her. _"Molly!"_ His voice came again, high and panicked.

"Where- " she mouthed frantically, in a voice like sandpaper.

" _There!_ " The voice floated over the rooftops, and as the man pointed, his finger glinting in the moonlight, the movement caught her eye. Sherlock clutched awkwardly at the rooftop wall, his body trailing after him as he struggled to claim a better grip. With a cry, she leapt forward, seizing his arm and wrenching it forward with as much strength as she could muster. A shot exploded beside her, leaving a deep crater in the wall. Gritting her teeth and shouting wordlessly, she _pulled,_ her muscles screaming in protest as the darkness seemed to cloud her vision. The brick scraped deeply into his body, leaving a red trail across the fabric of his white shirt and bits of flesh locked in the crevices. But his feet scrabbled at the wall, and in a moment he stood next to her, bending double as he clutched his knees.

"Are you alright, you're hurt-!"

"No time," he wheezed, and nodded to the opposite corner. "There's a balcony- just there- "

Scurrying on her hands and feet over to the corner, she looked down. The gilt railing flashed below. "I'll go first!" He shouted, coming up behind her as another shot sounded. His breaths came heavily, but he jumped nimbly onto the ledge, and lowered himself down quickly. Finding a foothold where a brick poked out from the building, he felt for another, his fingers white and clammy with the effort. Nothing but air met his waving limbs- and with a hiss of resignation, he dropped suddenly, his knees making contact with the hard ground with a loud _crack._ She watched him, biting her lip until it bled, her fingers numb with fear against the ledge.

"Now you!" He insisted through a deep groan of pain, and without thinking she leapt up, crouching as he held his arms out to her. Panic coursed through her, so painful that she thought she might die from it. It was a close thing, that drop…

" _Best give yerself up, girly!"_ Hooted a voice and, turning, she found her close pursuers behind her, not two loping strides away-

"I'll catch you!" Sherlock shouted- she felt the barest brush of hands at her back- and she tumbled over the side, limp and near fainting. But then his warmth surrounded her, and the swipe of his thumb over cheek brushed a crumbling of blood away. "Stay with me," he murmured, and with a crash of glass, a door had been broken, and they stumbled through.

Molly had only time to register a goggling couple, the woman shrieking bloody murder as she pulled the blankets up to her chin, her balding husband doing precisely nothing but opening and shutting his mouth several times. "Wh-wh-wh- " he stammered feebly.

"No time for pleasantries!" Sherlock cried, throwing a dashing, albeit tired, smile over his shoulder as he swept Molly into his arms and out the door. Down three flights of stairs and they were again on the streets, an open cab ready and waiting in front of the door. The horse whickered nervously, and the hunched little figure that clutched the reins whipped around, grinning outrageously.

"Mr. Holmes!" He shouted merrily, as if they had not met for a very long while.

"For God's sake, Archie, I told you a block closer!" Sherlock shouted irritably, heaving Molly into the cab and hoisting himself in after her.

"Couldn't, Mr. Holmes, there was- "

" _Go_ , damn you, it doesn't matter! To Mycroft, _now!"_

"Right you are, Mr. Holmes!" The boy shouted gleefully, and with a crack of the whip, the cab lurched forward, and Molly sank into a deep, welcoming oblivion.

 **~0~0~**

"MYCROFT!" He roared. The night filled with his voice. A raven cawed once; the crackling winter leaves rattled their response from the many-armed trees. Molly was a dead-weight in his arms, her disheveled head lolling vacantly against his shoulder. He shifted her against him, wrapping his trembling arm tighter about her tiny form as he pounded his fist into the polished oaken door.

"Mycroft, _open up!"_ He bellowed again. A flurry of movement sounded from within the house, and the door opened suddenly. The butler, flustered and anxious, held the door open a crack to peer through, his hair standing on end.

"Mr. Holmes!" Exclaimed the man, his voice thick and syrupy with sleep. He opened the door an inch wider, revealing his tartan dressing gown. "We weren't expecting- "

"Of course you weren't." Snapped Sherlock, shouldering past him. "Mycroft, devil take you!" He barked hoarsely, beginning to mount the great staircase with effort. His muscles howled at him with every long step, and some sort of dead weariness began to creep, stealthily, through his veins. "I _swear_ to all that is _Holy-_ "

"You really mustn't flatter me, brother mine," replied a pleasant, mellow voice. "In over your head, are we?" The extensive, hulking figure of Mycroft Holmes stepped onto the landing, a lazy smile gracing his lips in the light of the candelabra he held before him. But as he stepped closer, his expression sobered. Sherlock glared up at him with defiant eyes, his mouth tight-set. "Bring her in here," Mycroft said quickly, all traces of amusement vanishing. He stepped back, pressing against the wall as Sherlock moved past.

"Is she hurt?" He asked quietly. Sherlock deposited Molly on the stiff guest-bed, untouched and strewn with fanciful pillows as it was.

"Some cuts and scrapes- but not hurt so much by those as by these damnable contraptions that women insist on wearing." He held a hand just above her mouth. It shook, imperceptibly. "Her breathing is too shallow- some water, and smelling salts would not be amiss."

"Bennet will see to it." Replied Mycroft, glancing to the butler who had appeared in the doorway. Bennet nodded swiftly and hurried away, shutting the door behind him. "So this is Mrs. Brook, is it?"

"Mycroft..." Sherlock muttered in a low, warning tone- but his brother persisted, furrowing his fat brow so that his eyes turned small and piggy in his face as he frowned.

"She suits you," he said after a moment, folding his plump hands over the folds of his girth. "We'll have to nullify that marriage of hers, of course."

"Why would you think-!" Sherlock sputtered furiously. His cheeks reddened, and he ducked his head, fumbling in his inner pockets.

"My dear brother, why ever else would you put a poor woman through all this? For shame! In fact- what are you going to do with that?"

Sherlock stood at the foot of the bed, awkwardly prizing his pen-knife open with a battered hand. Blankly, he glanced at his brother. "Remove her corset, of course." He replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"Sherlock, there are _laces- "_ Mycroft began in some alarm, taking a lumbering step forward

"No time," he muttered. "It's constricting her airflow, we've already waited too long." and in one swift movement, Sherlock seized the bodice of Molly's gown and ripped it open, revealing the corset beneath. Quickly he cut down the center, a few inches at a time- until Molly suddenly gasped, coughing violently. He tore the rest of the corset from her, flinging it to the corner of the room as she struggled to sit upright.

"Water," She wheezed, gulping in deep breaths. Her shift hung loose around her, but she could not care- all that she seemed to register was the enormous loss of pressure, of _weight_ that had been freed from her body. Mechanically, she reached with a quivering hand to feel for the pouch, safe as it always was, twisted between her breasts. She sighed in relief as she felt its warmth between her fingers, and her eyes fluttered briefly closed. When she opened them, it was to find Sherlock staring at her, his eyes narrowed.

A sharp rap at the door caught her attention, and she recoiled suddenly, seeing Mycroft for the first time and wondering how she could have missed him. He smiled tightly at her, and she was abruptly aware of the state of her undress.

"Enter, Bennet," the large man said mildly. The butler shuffled in, looking apprehensively from one face to another. "Ah- a dressing gown, how very thoughtful of you. Set them just there, thank you; we won't be needing the smelling salts." Bennet bowed slightly, setting a little silver tray with a pitcher of water on the side table, and draped an enormous purple silk dressing gown over the bedpost. She seized it immediately, and enveloped herself in its folds.

"I could not find a smaller one," he whispered apologetically, glancing at Molly, who smiled gratefully at him.

"That will do, Bennet." The Butler left, leaving the three in silence. "You should rest, Mrs. Brook- you must be tired. Sherlock, a word?" Mycroft said pointedly, gesturing to the door.

Sherlock looked intently at Molly, her gaze heavy-lidded and lethargic. "Do you require anything else?" He said uncomfortably, his gaze from her to Mycroft and back as if he was unsure of his position in the presence of his brother.

She smiled wanly. "A bath a bit later, perhaps- but now I think should like nothing more than to sleep. And to who- who- " she yawned tremendously, covering it with a dressing gown sleeve. "-who do I have to thank, for taking us in at this dreadfully unsociable hour?"

"This is my brother, Mycroft." Sherlock replied stonily, clearly very much affronted at having to accept his brother's help at all.

"A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Brook."

"Oh- likewise, I'm sure," she murmured, her head drooping back ever so slightly. The bed rose up to greet her, like an old friend.

"Let her sleep…" was the last thing she heard, as the light seemed to fade, and her eyes flickered closed.

 **~0~0~**

She woke with a start into awareness, as if she had never been asleep at all. Her ears rang with the strange half-silence of an unfamiliar house- _what had woken her?_ There had been nothing, no sound at all, and yet… She unpeeled one eye, and then the next, peering into the thick, impenetrable darkness.

A match flared before her nose, and she flinched way as light flared suddenly outward, then dimmed. Her heart stopped in her chest for a moment- but then his face loomed into view, pale, and long, and still as water. He turned from her, lighting the fat oil lamp in its brass holder beside the bed. The shadows fled to their corners as the small light struggled to fill the room. "It's you," she sighed, her pulse calming as she sank back against the pillows.

"I thought you would sleep longer," Sherlock said conversationally, handing her a glass of water from the side table. He was in his shirtsleeves, tattered as they were and speckled with blood.

"You've hurt yourself," She said quietly, eyeing the long scrape that ran from his elbow to his wrist.

"No more than you. I took the liberty of bandaging your hands; you were quite dead to the world, but they looked painful. John would have done a tidier job, but I fear he is not here to administer his doctor's potions."

She blushed, examining his handiwork. "Do you think they'll be alright? Dr. Watson, I mean, and Inspector Lestrade, and the others?"

He shrugged, sighing heavily. "Save for perhaps a broken nose, I don't think any real harm will come to them. They're sure to be in custody, but there is no legal basis for any of this convoluted mess. And Mycroft will see to it besides, in the morning. Having a sibling that practically runs the British government has its uses, I suppose."

"I didn't know you had a brother." She said after a moment, her tone arch with accusation and mischief both.

He shrugged again, smiling wryly. "There's a lot you don't know about me, Miss Hooper."

"Molly."

He inclined his head gravely, catching her gaze in his own. "Molly, then."

She sniffed, accepting his stoicism. "And the boy? What of him? How did he know…?"

"Ah- yes, well, Archie…" he shifted uncomfortably, avoiding her gaze.

"He can't be more than ten! And- Sherlock, we might have been killed if not for him- "

"He's small for his age," he interrupted impatiently. "I've had him under my wing for many a year, and I see that he comes to no harm- and that he lives quite well, for a street urchin. Suffice it to say that I always take precautions, no matter how harmless the situation, or how… _reckless_ … I may seem. And in this case, my precautions turned out to be necessity. Archie is invaluable to me."

Silence fell between them for a moment. Molly looked down at her rough bandages, and flexed her fingers experimentally. They stung, though the pain was not bad. She looked up, and found his gaze locked on her. His expression was drawn, and exhausted, though not unkind. "I'm sorry," she blurted, biting her lip as the words tumbled from her mouth.

"For what?" He asked curiously, though his visage remained expressionless.

"For Miss Adler- I truly am sorry, Sherlock… I- I didn't know her, but…" she trailed off, looking away. "No one deserves that fate."

"No," he agreed, his face darkening. "We were never very close, Miss Adler and I. But we were cut from the same cloth- a kindred spirit, of sorts; a mirror image. I think she understood this truth, but we could never have born the other's company for any long stretch. Be that as it may… she died for it. _Ah,_ but that fool has played me terribly, and now it is _I_ that am the fool! He's after you, now- did you know this? I should never- should _never_ have dragged you into all this- and now all I've done is thrown you straight from the frying pan to into the fire! _Molly- "_

"Sherlock," she reached for his hand, quieting him as he breathed heavily. Their fingers intertwined naturally, fitting together like puzzle pieces from the clay. He stared down at them, his lips pinched as his body quivered. "It was not your fault." She said in a low voice. He tensed, shooting an anguished glare at her as he made to pull his hand away- but she gripped it tightly in her own, though it made her palms prickle in pain.

"How do you know?" He asked brokenly. "You can't know that. Moriarty- this _man_ \- is the most dangerous soul I have ever met, and not until now, not until this _very night_ could I set aside my pride enough to acknowledge this!"

"But I know _you_ , Sherlock, and know that you would never dangle Miss Adler on a string so carelessly- as you yourself have just said! No: the blame lays upon many shoulders, but on Moriarty's most of all."

His head drooped at her words, and he drew in a deep, shuddering breath. So small he looked, with his frame hunched, and folded in. In the strange world created between they two, in that impenetrable and closeted space, he wept. And she rose, gathering him into her arms, and into her bed. He shuddered as she held him close, and grew quiet as she slid her fingers through his ragged curls, the cloth of her shift growing slowly damp.

"Stay with me." He said quietly.

"I will."

"No- I mean- that is to say, Molly- when all this- all this has- finished, has done with- "

"I'll stay." She kissed his damp brow, and sighed, leaning back. That seemed to satisfy him, for he grew still, and curled into her, his nose touching the side of her bare neck. His hand slid up to cup touch her face, his thumb trailing against the side of her jaw.

"Thank you."

They might have dozed, or time might have stood still. But as they shifted in the bed, the warmth of their bodies drawing around them into a perfect cocoon, the leather pouch moved also against her heart, and drew attention to itself. It chafed, and scraped at her skin, gnawing at her conscience, begging to be heard.

"I have to show you something," she whispered finally, loathe as she was to spoil the one moment they had captured together. The lamp gleamed low, its oil all but spent.

"Mm." He responded sleepily, and drew her closer. His breath was warm against her skin, and she smiled, wanting nothing more than to turn to him, to sleep in his embrace.

But instead she pushed herself up, pulling the thong from about her neck as he grumbled. "I've been meaning to show this to you, but there never seemed to be time, or the _right_ time…" She drew out the old scrap of paper, folded four times over, and held it out to him. "I found this, under my husband's bed." She said quietly. One blue eye opened, and in a moment he was upright beside her, all traces of sleep vanishing as if they had never been there at all. "I know…" she began hesitantly, as he unfolded the paper impatiently, "I know it has nothing to do with the matter at hand, but there was something _funny_ about it, something that always caught at me, like it was important. I'm sure- I'm sure it's nothing, but I thought you might as well have a look, in case something was amiss. You _did_ say you wanted to know more of my- of, of Mr. Brook, didn't you?"

His hands were steady as he held the paper high in the lamplight, the flame's shadow joining those shades of vegsívirs that capered, in their many numbers, across the page. And those names, conjuring unspoken memories that forever haunted him, stood out in young, scrawled hands. _Eurus. Jim._

He did not breathe. He did not speak. And what little blood colored his face left it, as his eyes widened in dismay.

"Sherlock?" Molly asked into the silence, edging closer and laying a hand on his arm. "Sherlock, what is it!" She shook him, her own heart beginning to race as she peered again into the paper herself.

And, after what seemed an eternity, he raised his eyes to meet her own. "Molly," he said slowly, his voice low, and queer. "What _exactly_ is your husband's name?"


	23. Daybreak

**A/N: GUYS. SO SORRY. Summer is always crazy, and I dare you to try to write in a tent cooped up with my husband, who is something like a bottled tornado. Suffice it to say, it doesn't bode very well when I try to go to my quiet place! Anyway, I love you all, THANK YOU for continuing to follow this story and leaving your thoughts! Each and every one is so, so appreciated. Thanks most of all to likingthistoomuch, who is seriously a lifesaver, and just the best person ever. Ok- read on! Much love! xxK**

 **XXIII. Daybreak**

"Richard Brook," she said quietly. "My husb- his name is Richard Brook."

Holmes's fingers convulsed, gripping her forearm as the name fell from her lips. They stared at each other for a moment, his ice blue gaze meeting the deep brown warmth of hers. She looked at him quizzically, her head cocked as she glanced to his white-knuckled grasp. It would bruise, she knew; and when she looked again into his eyes, it was to find them full of remorse, and- could it be? - _fear._

Abruptly, he released her, lurching upright and crossing to the window. Leaning his forehead heavily upon the pane, his breath fogged the frosted glass. Snow had begun to fall; a light dusting that covered the vague outlines of streets, so that they all ran together into one vast sweep of London. But the sky, dark as it yet was, held within it an ominous glow, a portent of the day to come.

" _Reichenbach,"_ he muttered under his breath. Shoulders hunched, he stood framed in the window, his fists balled tightly upon the sill. Grey fingers of menacing cloud seemed to reach over his shoulder and into the room like a shroud. _Fear,_ that reviled and dreaded thing, was present in his every twitch, every slight movement. It hovered over him and, with a curl of his lip, she knew he _despised_ it.

"Sherlock, what- ?" She pushed herself from the bed, her mouth twisting as every muscle in her body protested into a hiss of pain. Molly limped carefully closer, favoring her left foot where the flesh had not been rubbed quite as raw by her boot. "Tell me," she implored as she approached. "Whatever it is, Sherlock, _tell me- "_

"Reichenbach," he said again, louder, and turned to face her. An unholy light glowed within his eyes; some dogged persistence, and an absolute refusal to back away, until he had lit upon some express truth.

" _God,"_ he muttered beneath his breath. He twisted to stare again out the window, as if some hidden answer lay just beyond his reach. "That was the name, the name of the stream, where she…"

"Sherlock, I swear to you..." Molly started, letting her hand come to rest upon his wrist. " _Trust me._ Isn't that what you asked of me, once?" Her smile was wry, and her fingers dug into his sinewy flesh, the better to emphasize her point. He winced slightly, his glance darting down to her hand, then up again, his eyes meeting her own. There was a rawness in the quicksilver blue of his eyes, and the flecks of his irises seemed a window to his mind. _But what do I read there, in the nebulous certainties that make him…him?_

"…Where she drowned." He finished, in a voice hollow as the soul of an echo. Molly recoiled, as if his words had physically struck her. The moment hung in the air, pregnant with unsaid words. He did not blink.

"Wh- _who_?" She began- but whatever trance, whatever tenuous connection had sprang up between them had snapped. Holmes jerked suddenly back, as if he had reeled himself vigorously from the depths of his consciousness.

"I must go." He said sharply, and turned to gather his greatcoat from where he had flung it across an armchair.

"What! But- "

" _Molly._ " Her name on his lips was fervent and terrible, an urgent sound that betrayed his sentiment. In three quick strides he had crossed the room and seized her by the waist, drawing her close. The little distance between them vanished as he gathered her into his embrace, his hands tight about her. He kissed her, desperately, cupping her face in his hands. And she kissed him back with equal feverish hunger, parting his lips with her own as they kissed again, and again, and again. Their tastes mingled, and for a moment she could not think at all but simply _feel,_ feel the warmth of his body against hers, the steady tug of his touch. But the muscles of his back tensed suddenly, and he seized her shoulders, pushing her gently back. Molly stared up at him, breathless, her lips swollen and tender. His eyes were wide and gleaming as he gazed down upon her, the desire in them plain.

"I must go," he whispered again, though he made no movement.

"Where?" She asked wildly. "Take me with you!"

"No." The word fell like a stone into the air. She stared at him, hurt flooding through her.

"Do you seek my husband?" She demanded sharply, her eyes glinting. He hesitated, and his silence spoke volumes. "He is dangerous," she said softly. "Sherlock, he is _ever_ so dangerous- "

"I will… take the utmost care. But I _must_ see him- and, Molly, I will not risk you again! Please believe me," he said urgently, seizing her hands in his. "I need you to stay here, where I'll _know_ you'll be safe. Mycroft will see to you- he can be trusted. I _cannot_ be distracted, you must understand- "

"Go, then," she challenged coolly, and raised her chin, glaring defiantly at him. The look they exchanged then was one she never forgot; for it reached far, touching every part of her, body, and soul, and ghost.

"God willing…" he murmured, his lips seeming to barely move, "this will all be over when I return."

She turned to face the window, tugging her hands from his. For a moment, he stood still, staring at her as if he could memorize her every movement, her essence, her life. The wind gusted, rattling the limbs of the bare trees. Looking out into the graying dawn, she moved closer to the window, and remembered the first time she had clapped eyes upon him, in another year, and another life.

 _I love you._

The words were so soft, the barest whisper that floated, like dandelion fluff, on the air. Her breath caught, and she spun, catching the edge of his greatcoat as it whisked from the room. She scrambled to follow him, moving noiselessly onto the landing- but there was nothing. Below, the great door through which they had entered only hours before opened, and closed. Slowly she turned, and trailed back to the window, her heart pounding a silent tattoo within her chest.

In the grey of early morning, she watched him walk away. The snow had begun to fall in earnest, and left shadowy kisses about his shoulders. With a deft movement, he wound his blue scarf tightly about his neck. He did not look back.

 **~0~0~**

Dr. Watson woke with a start into the darkness of a cell. He could not say what had woken him, but it drew him back to those days of war, when the smell of the battlefield- smoke and rot and singed flesh- blended into a singular perfume. But here, in this place, there was no stifling heat; only an aching cold and damp that crept, like a canker, through his very bones. The overwhelming stench of mildewed straw and stale piss exploded in his nostrils as he sucked in a breath, and he coughed violently, clapping a hand over his mouth. Or he had at least _meant_ to, but as his hand twitched, it erupted into pulsing agony. Cursing softly, he lifted the offending appendage to his face- but the light was weak, and not a damnable thing was to be seen. All the same, he could feel the stickiness of blood, and his knuckles seemed twice their normal size. Gingerly, he explored the planes of his face with two fingers grown stiff and swollen with cold. There was, he knew, a good deal of bruising, but on the whole he congratulated himself on scraping by unharmed- save for the fantastic headache he now nursed. Grimacing, he let his body curl in upon itself, and lowered his head into his hands, trying to remember _how,_ exactly, he had gotten there.

"'Choo in 'ere for then, eh?"

Watson froze, squinting into the semi-darkness. "I'm sure I don't know." He said, scanning the shadows, flinching as the words forced themselves from his aching mouth. Ever so slowly, his eyes began to adjust to what hazy light had been granted, slanting from beneath the grated door into a paler shade of black.

"I killed a man, I did," said the voice. It was hoarse with disuse, but clearly satisfied with the excuse to hear itself speak. Something shifted in the darkness, and presently Watson could just make out the outline of his neighbor. He was nothing more than a muddled shape, but he imagined by the smell that it was a someone vastly hairy and in need of a good bath.

"I'm sure you did." replied Watson politely. Clutching at the dank walls, he hoisted himself up, groaning loudly as he made his way to the door. "Excuse me!" He shouted out. "There's- there's been a terrible mistake- " Although this, he reflected, was not precisely true, as he distinctly recalled dealing several healthy blows to a number of men in uniform. He flexed his fingers instinctively, the shadow of a smirk passing beneath his moustache. " -if I could only speak to someone- "

"Callin' for yer mummy, eh? 'S no use, guv'- once they lock you up in 'ere..." The man sharing his cell laughed a bitter laugh which turned quickly to a hacking, phlegmy cough.

"If you could only send for- I must speak to Inspector Lestrade- " he continued loudly- but then stopped abruptly, frowning. Where _was_ Inspector Lestrade? The last he had seen of the man, he had been surrounded by Gregson's men, knees buckling and eyes wildly eager as he cracked a man about the head with his fist. And what, too, of _Sherlock,_ and Miss Hooper? He clutched his spinning head, sinking to the floor. "Good God," he breathed. What _was_ this mess they had landed themselves in? Had he bought them time, at least, to flee? _And what of the killer, lost in the night_?

"I could kill ye too, ye know," murmured the man in the dark. The shape seemed to creep closer, but Watson paid no heed. His mind swam, and would not focus. He blinked once, twice. He must find a way out, that much was clear- but _how?_ Furrowing his brows, he held his hand again before his face. And so far as he could tell, it did not tremble. _Good enough,_ he thought grimly, and forced himself again upwards.

"What 'choo got on yerself now, I wonder? Summat rich, or sparklin'? What's ye got in yer pockets then, eh?" The voice found form as the man slunk from the shadows. He was a haggard, beggarly thing, his hair stringy and matted, the whites of his eyes glimmering. Watson snorted, letting his gaze fall as he leaned back against the wall, the back of his head knocking painfully.

"What would you do with coppers or sparkling things, if I even had them? I'll have none of this nonsense now, I'm warning you," Watson muttered, flicking his eyes open and staring coldly into the face of the man, not four inches away from his own. His breath was rank, spilling against his face as Watson glared up at him. The man leered, revealing a gap-toothed, brown smile.

"Then again," Watson continued, his fingers twitching into a fist as he grinned his own wolf-like grin beneath a bristling moustache, "You may be just the distraction I need." His muscles bunched, ready to spring away from the wall, and the man suddenly cowered, his face gone slack with alarm-

The key turned in the lock, groaning with rusty disuse. The captive man scurried deftly back to the shadows, and Watson span to face his jailor. He raised his fist high, the outpouring of light near blinding him-

"Dr. Watson!" Inspector Lestrade hissed, just barely leaping back as his fist let fly. "Easy, man, it's me!"

"Lestrade!" Watson exclaimed joyfully as he steadied himself against the clammy, weeping wall. "I'd given you up! Where the devil have you been? Are you hurt?"

"Only my vanity, I'm afraid," Lestrade replied, grimacing. The tell-tale stamps of a fight were marked plain about his face, the bruises and cuts scattered beneath his eye and lips- but the silver-haired Inspector looked hardly the worse for wear, for all of that. There was some gleeful bounce to his step, some excitement that came with the springing free of his comrade-in-arms that absolutely tickled him.

"Gregson had me taken in," he confessed jovially, "thrown in a cell- couldn't get a word in edgewise! Not a man would listen, the fools- and then I was released, not two hours hence! Haven't the foggiest notion of _what_ exactly happened, but I'd bet my life that Mycroft Holmes was involved. Although, my dear fellow," he spared a glance around the cell and sniffed deeply. "It seems that you've gotten rather the short end of the stick! What a _stench!"_

Watson wrinkled his nose, and grinned. "I ruined Gregson's face _and_ laid waste to his plans- really, it might have been far worse had you not come along."

Lestrade barked out an excited laugh, peering further into the cell. The convict huddled in the corner, his eyes two glowing points of light. The Inspector frowned, nodding in the man's direction. "Who's your friend?"

"Not really my area," replied Watson, and already there was a new flash in his eye, his shoulders snapped to attention, and his lip curled. He straightened his stained and bloodied greatcoat, and glanced to the corridor, flickering in the glow of hesitant lamps. "Let's get on with it, then- I'm loathe to leave a love-sick Holmes on his own. He's enough trouble without his heart in knots," he said cryptically. Lestrade scowled silently in answer, stepping out after him.

" _Let me go_ , sir, I've done nuffin', sir, nuffin'..." the prisoner in the corner whined. " _Please,_ sirs, I weren't- weren't _really_ going to strangle 'im, nor touch 'im, neither- "

"Right, he's a murderer, and _we_ are leaving," said Watson pointedly, seizing Lestrade's elbow. The grate clanged shut behind them, and the man immediately launched upon it, twisting the bars in his knobbly fists.

"Nuffin'! _"_ He screamed, spraying spittle through the grate in every direction. _"Nuffin'! Nuffin'!"_

His voice echoed off the walls as they jogged to the end of the long corridor, their ragged breaths rattling in their chests. It must have been deep night, or early morning, Watson reasoned, for they saw not a soul as they raced along passageways and up twisting stairs. They burst, finally, out of the wretched place into still, cold air. The sun was a low, hazy spot upon the horizon, the myriad chimneys and rooftops stabbing upwards into the drab morning. Snow fell heavily upon the waking streets, coating everything that stood with a liberal dose of windswept, flaky ice. Watson gasped as a gust of wind pushed him suddenly forward, his boots soaking in the greedy wetness of the snowy pavement.

"Christ, but it's cold!" He exclaimed, pulling his ragged greatcoat tighter about himself. Lestrade puffed up beside him, bending double with his hands upon his knees as he fought for breath. The wind snaked its fingers into the marrow of his bones, and he shuddered, casting a glance round the deserted streets. In the naked day, their escape was suddenly bleak, and aimless.

"And now? Where to, Lestrade?" Watson asked, more to the air than to the man beside him. He paused, laughing humorlessly. "Have you the faintest idea of where our friend has run off to?"

Lestrade furrowed his brow, rummaging in his many pockets for his gloves. He sighed, pulling first one on, and then the other. "Who knows where his all of his bolt-holes lie? There are a few I know of- "

"But he has Miss Hooper with him, and would scarcely make camp under a bridge with her in tow." Watson finished.

"Well then, to the elder Mr. Holmes, I should think." Replied Lestrade thoughtfully.

"Sherlock despises his brother." Watson scoffed.

"Not when circumstances are dire," Lestrade countered, grimacing. He glanced at Watson, who was wincing as he straightened his back, and laughed ruefully. "By Jove but you look a sight, man!" The edge of his coat was stained with mud, the sleeve torn and dirty, and the pressed white collar was, alas, daubed copiously in a crimson spattering of blood.

Watson's moustache twitched, the ghost of a grin touching his lips. He shrugged nonchalantly, his smile dry. "It's worth it for one's friends, you know."

Lestrade caught his eye, and a moment of understanding passed between the two men. The mess was a sorry one indeed and yet, for Sherlock Holmes, a man they could both call _friend_ with the utmost of sincerity and earnestness, this adventure seemed a small price to pay. But the villain, that _Moriarty,_ had not yet been drawn into the eerie light of day. And ever the storm brewed, and seethed, the dark swirling crest yet on the horizon...

"Dr. Watson!" Piped a small, frantic voice. Across the way, a dark little form darted from behind a building, scampering across the deserted street. "Dr. Watson, Dr. Watson!" The boy shouted his name like a desperate prayer as he skidded across the snow-covered cobblestones. They slipped from beneath him as he ran, and he tumbled, trembling, into Watson's arms. "It's Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson!" He exclaimed in a muffled voice, fighting to regain his footing.

Watson set him on his feet, peering beneath the visor of the boy's cap into his white face. "Archie! Good Lord, is that you? How the devil did you find us here?" Watson asked perplexedly, dusting the crusted snow from the boy's shoulders. "Is everything alright? Is Sherlock- "

"No," the boy gasped, clearly winded. "No, not him, the big one, the _fat_ one- "

"Mycroft? What's happened?" Asked Lestrade urgently, clasping Archie's arms to steady him as he sucked in breath after breath.

"He was _shot,"_ Archie choked, looking miserably at his sopping shoes.

" _What?"_

"What do you mean, _shot?_ Archie, is that blood on your hands? Damn you, _tell us!"_ Shouted Watson, spinning the boy round to face him.

"There was nothing I could do, Dr. Watson, I- I _tried!_ " Wailed Archie, tears streaking his dirty cheeks. "He's not- not _dead_ , and I sent for the doctor, but- "

"But _what_ , boy!" Watson shook him wildly, his head snapping to and fro, his eyes wide. " _What of Sherlock and Molly?"_

"Watson, leave off him!" Lestrade exclaimed, pulling him back.

The snow gusted between them, tearing at their faces, their lips numbing in the cold. The boy stared up into Watson's face, his eyes huge and luminous. " _Gone,"_ he whispered.

 **~0~0~**

Her fingers trembled, like a flame blown by wind, as they grazed her lips. His kiss lingered there, a seal upon her soul, a promise. _He looks like a hawk_ , Molly reflected as his form retreated into the smoky dawn. He stopped at the curb, glancing to the harried sky as he reached behind to raise his collar against the snow. His back was stooped, his neck long as he seemed to seize the air into his nostrils. But it was the tension that caught her eye, the bright-eyed alertness that a bird of prey displays as he springs from his perch, intent on the kill. Within moments, a cab sprang up and, with a slant-eyed look that cut like a knife, he was gone.

She lingered by the window for what seemed an eternity. Some hole had been carved in his sudden absence, worry gnawing at its edges like a festerous wound. Yet within also endured a deep-set fury; fury that he would leave her, that he would _discard_ her, no matter the danger. Perhaps it had been nothing but a naive dream- or perhaps it was simply _Sherlock,_ in all his essence. But hadn't they found, time after time, that two- or three, or four or five, were always, _always_ stronger than one? Staring into the swirling half-light, she prayed silently that he would at least have the good sense to fetch Dr. Watson. Molly's heart faltered at the thought of dear Dr. Watson; of Inspector Lestrade, and all the other men that had stood their ground to ensure their escape. ( _Oh, God, let them be safe!)._

Sighing, Molly turned away, one hand tugging fruitlessly at the snarled tangles of her hair. She scowled as she glanced down at the matted lengths. It was hopeless without a brush- _and a wash,_ she thought, wrinkling her nose as she sniffed at her shift, _would not be amiss._ The maid had not yet built up the fire- and small wonder, for it was scarcely daybreak, and entirely too early for any soul to be about. But Mr. Brook would not sleep; and neither, it seemed, would Sherlock, or herself.

Snatching up her ruined corset from the corner, she held it up to the lamplight. It was an absolute mess, but it would not do to walk half-naked about the home of her host. She sighed as she tugged the straps over her filthy chemise. The boning poked through the fabric in several places, chafing against her ribs as she secured the sorry thing with a bit of lacing that had escaped Sherlock's fury. Over the ensemble she wrapped the over-large dressing gown, the sleeves billowing about her wrists.

Molly left the room with arms wrapped tightly about herself, pausing only to glance at the darkened stairwell. There was no one about, but there seemed light enough to move about, if she was careful. The foyer opened out beautifully from beneath the stairs, all polished wood and shining banisters, a candelabra hanging with outstretched arms from the ornate ceiling. But it was cold, and she had not thought to stamp her feet into what remained of her battered little dress shoes. Her toes curled as she gazed around herself. Scores of paintings stared down at her from gleaming walls. Her nails trailed the space beneath the portraits as she walked silently, down one corridor, and then the next. Ever the gazes of the painted men and women followed her; blue, crystalline eyes, and some dark ones, high brows and curling black hair and, here and there, a figure so corpulent they filled the frame entirely.

She felt so small, as she wandered the halls. The cold beauty of the place brought a smile to her eyes, and for a moment, she forgot to be afraid. For _everything_ here was beautiful: the patterns papering the walls, the smooth wood of a carved chair, the burnished bronze of the lamp brackets.

When the light had begun to glow from the windows in earnest, she stopped. At the end of the corridor glowed a little ball of flame, cast from a door slightly ajar onto the paneled wood beneath it. Molly paused, considering, and then crept nearer, raising her fist to knock gently.

"Mr. Holmes?" Her voice sounded tremulous, even to her ears. The door opened smoothly beneath her touch, bathing her in the warm glow of a lamp that sat upon the desk. Mycroft looked up from his notes, his eyes small and piggy, yet piercing, in his flabby face. A small plate covered in floral designs was pushed to the side of the desk, a smattering of crumbs leading a trail up to his mouth.

"Miss Hooper," he said calmly, a smile stretching his thin lips. He laid down his pen, and sat back in his chair, folding his hands over his burgeoning belly. Atop his head was perched a greasy cap, much like a robin's nest balanced precariously atop a mighty oak. The tassel flopped limply against Mycroft's close-cropped hair as he settled more comfortably into his chair. "What can I do for you?"

"Oh," she replied, startled from her wandering thoughts. "Oh- I had hoped, perhaps, that you might have something suitable for me to wear? Even a servant's dress would do, I'm afraid this one is scarcely more than rags," she smiled wryly.

Mycroft considered, then replied in a hopelessly posh voice. "As it happens, I have several garments my mother has left over the years, when she finds that her ever-increasing closet will no longer hold them. They are, I think, enormously outdated, but there you have it." His smile was kind, and although it did reach his eyes, there was a hardness there, buried deep, that Molly was wary of.

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes," she said in an uncertain voice.

He waved a flabby hand. "No need, Molly my dear. And please, do call me Mycroft. I insist. You are, I think, a rather good influence on my brother, and thus are to be recommended. I am sure we shall be as close as kin in the near future- ah, I see I have startled you. Well, think nothing of it- I flatter myself, I know my dear brother better than he knows himself. Where is Sherlock, if I may ask?"

"He- went out," said Molly cautiously. Mycroft's face grew dark as a storm cloud, his little eyes narrowing. The air between them thickened, and she found herself taking one unconscious step back.

"He's gone out," Mycroft echoed coolly.

Molly nodded nervously, twisting her fingers together. "Yes, well, I- I believe he's gone to see my husband..." She trailed off suddenly. The sun had chosen that moment to lift its head from the clouds, peering through the window in a soft ray of light. Dust motes hung in the air, suddenly visible, evidence of the resolute march of time. And that sweet light bit through the secret darkness of Mycroft's study, casting itself onto the large painting that hung behind his quivering head. She had scarcely glanced at it upon entering but now, as the dust clung, languid, in the middle-air, the three painted faces stared down at her. They were in turn imperious, bored, disinterested. In short, they were everything that could be expected from aristocratic children. Rich glosses of brown and black curls tumbled from their heads, their eyes a uniform cool, piercing blue.

"Eurus," Molly breathed, staring up at the figure of the little girl. Her lips were pursed and disdainful; and yet they curled ever so slightly into the semblance of a smile. Suddenly, it was as if Molly was there, back in Mr. Brook's own terrible study, staring down at that framed little photograph:

 _Playmates: Eurus, Jim and S._

 _S._

 _Sherlock._

She felt her hands coil into tense fists as she stared up at the painting, unable to look away.

" _What?"_ Mycroft's voice was the sharp crack of a whip, raining cold realization over her shaking body.

"Eurus is Sherlock's sister, _your_ sister... oh, God, Mycroft," she whispered, her nails biting tightly into her palms. _"What happened to your sister?"_

"She's dead." Replied Mycroft shortly, all traces of empathy wiped from his sharp gaze.

Molly squeezed her eyes shut, and laughed. Her head felt molten and heavy as truths revealed themselves to her, clunking into place like an old, dusty machine. "I'm married to a _murderer!"_ she guffawed, the words catching hysterically in a throat gone abruptly dry. "And he means- he means to do the same to Sherlock, to- to burn the _heart_ from him- "

Mycroft lunged suddenly across the desk, his hand darting to capture her wrist. "Tell me everything you know." He said in a low voice. His chins wobbled menacingly, and he might have looked comical if it were not for the smoldering fire in his eyes as he hissed at her.

She gasped, and laughed aloud, her eyes wild as she pulled herself free from his grip. "Mr. Brook is- he is _Jim Moriarty_! Oh God, I always knew there was something, _something_ I could not see and- _Oh,_ Mycroft!" Molly exclaimed, her face gone pale as a ghost. "Sherlock, _he's going there now,_ to confront him, to put an end to this... I must go!" She cried, and leapt for the door.

" _Wait!"_ Shouted Mycroft, but his clumsy gait was no match for her light feet. Molly raced through the corridors, a dull _thud_ and generous curses following her. Never for a moment did she pause, her bare feet slapping across the foyer as the laughter bubbled up inside her. _Gone... he was gone!_ She flung the great door wide, and the frozen air embraced her like a lover as she tumbled out onto the grounds. She stood gasping for a moment, her breath coming in great smoking whorls. The snow had begun to fall in earnest, the dead, crusty grass beneath her feet carpeted in jagged points of frost. Dimly, she heard the clamor rise from within the house; the servants rising from their beds as Mycroft's bellows shook the windows. She had been blind, so _very_ blind... but there! A lone cab stood, as if waiting for her, at the curb. In that moment it seemed as if the future lay before her, ready to grasp, if she would only _take_ it. Too long had she been the object of fate's suggestions, _too long_ had she lived without the freedom to be. Time slowed, and each breath was a miracle. The wind whipped her hair into a frenzy, moaning in her ear, _Molly, Molly, Molly._ One step she took, and then another, her feet leading her with some wisdom of their own, the dressing gown puddling around her feet in a soaking slush. The cabbie roused from his seat, peering at her queerly. The horse champed, clacking it's great hoofs down upon the cobblestones.

"Miss Hooper!"

The high cry cut through the fog; the voice of a boy, sharp and wary. The cabbie urged the horse forward, letting his whip fly delicately over its ears. She turned slowly, her brows furrowed, as if in a trance.

She looked at the little figure, and knew him. But it was all she could do to simply _feel_ : her feet, bare and frozen, her skin pimpled with cold. Slowly, she drew a hand in front of her face, and marveled at it. _My God, but we are all mortal._

"Mr. Holmes has asked you to come in, Miss. He- he says it is not safe for you to be seen out here, begging your pardon, Miss." Archie stood hesitantly upon the stoop, wringing his filthy cap between his hands.

She stared dumbly. Her dressing gown flapped dully in the silent wind. Looking down at herself, she suddenly blushed furiously. _What sort of fool am I? To rush off in the early morning, with neither penny nor shoes nor dress nor- nor_ weapon _\- What of promises, are they nothing but false words?_ Molly bit her lip, abruptly livid with herself. "Alright." She called, bundling the dressing gown more securely about herself. "Mr. Holmes is right- it would be foolish- "

"Miss!" Shrieked Archie suddenly, his eyes gone wide.

The hand that grasped her neck tightened quickly, jerking her back in one strong movement. Blind panic seized her as the world narrowed to a single point- and a cloth descended upon her, over her mouth, covering her tongue, her nose. It could have been made from linen or silk or rough-spun, but it hardly mattered: for it _burned._ Her throat was burning, her nostrils licked in a scorching heat, _oh God_ , her eyes were aflame! She tried to scream, but the pain lapped at her so intensely that it was all she could do to cling to consciousness. She willed herself to fight, to _kick_ , and punch, elbow and claw- but her limbs did not obey her as she felt the ground moving beneath her, and the burning, suffocating fog clawed its way down her throat, clouding her mind… There were shouts, and voices, both distant and near… what little control over her body she had left to her was gone in a moment; the fire in her mind consumed all. A great _crack_ ripped through the air, and the darkness swelled around, smiling greedily, and took her in.

 **~0~0~**

Mycroft clutched with white, fat fingers at the heavy door, panting wordlessly as the scene unfolded in front of him. Something moved beneath him, darting and tugging, and with his heart in his throat he glanced down to see Archie plucking at his sleeve. "Archie," he said dazedly.

"Mr. Holmes- what should we do?" Archie shouted, his voice near shrill as a scream. "He-he's _taking_ her, Mr. Holmes! We can't- "

But with a sudden furious roar Bennet swept past, a pistol clenched in his fist. It was as if the Butler's action jogged Mycroft's own mind, and in a moment he found himself following the man as quickly as his large legs would carry him. He lost one velvet slipper on the stair, and shuddered as the icy mess made its way between his toes. Molly's form was limp in the arms of the cabbie, he saw, and with quick work the man tossed her easily into the body of the cab, flashing a brazen grin. But Bennet reached the man before he had time flick his whip, and with a yell he had dragged him down from his seat, his elbow knocking back to throw a punch. Blood poured from the man's nose as he kicked Bennet back, leaving a heavy black smear against the white of his nightshirt. The Butler landed heavily on his back, winded, clearly as unused to physical attack as his master. Fumbling at his hip, the cabbie pushed himself up and away. There was a flash of silver- and Mycroft's cry was like a war drum as he barreled into the man, taking him down again in a flurry of grunts and nightcap and dressing gown. The man scrambled free with a curse, and- _crack!_ \- the shot rang out in the morning air, swallowed by the silent snow. The horse leapt to attention, springing away as the cabbie lashed it furiously. Their precious cargo bounced and jolted within, and Mycroft glimpsed Molly's face, the point of her nose, the curve of her cheek, white as the dead as they sprang away.

The cab had already rounded the corner, leaving nothing but quiet in its wake, when the dull throb began to set it. Deep crimson spread across his arm as he watched. _An interesting feeling, being shot,_ Mycroft considered. _Not quite what one would expect._

"Mr. Holmes, Sir!" Archie cried, and the boy was there in a moment, tears staining his eyes. He peeled back the filthy dressing gown, his small, deft hands searching, seeking, plugging the hole left by the bullet. Blood welled from between his fingers, and the tears dropped from his nose, mingling in the soupy, mangled mess that was quickly becoming Mycroft's shoulder. "Get help!" The boy shrilled, looking over his shoulder at Bennet, who sat up slowly, shaking his head. "He's been shot, get a doctor- please! Call the surgeon!"

Bennett's eyes widened at the sight of the blood, and he scrambled up quickly, launching himself towards them. "Go, boy!" He growled, ripping a strip from the bottom of his grubby nightshirt and tying it around his Master's arm.

Archie nodded once, bounding up- but not before Mycroft seized a fistful of his trouser leg, yanking him down with his good arm. He stumbled, falling to one knee before the injured man, his face mere inches from Mycroft's. "Find- _warn- "_ he began, but the pain stopped him with a sharp intake of breath.

"Don't speak, Sir! I'll fetch- "

" _Get Dr. Watson,"_ the injured man groaned, his eyes rolling. "Get him, and- and- _send him to Miss Hooper's house._ Do you hear me? _To Molly Hooper's._ Tell him... tell him... _dangerous..."_ He seemed to wilt before the boy's eyes, becoming smaller, somehow; diminished. Archie trembled, unable to take his eyes from the blood.

" _Look at me."_ Mycroft panted, raising a shuddering hand. The boy's gaze snapped to his unblinkingly. Mr. Holmes smiled thinly. "Fear, my boy- " he gasped, and swallowed before continuing doggedly on. "Fear is _wisdom_ in the face of danger. It is nothing- _nothing_ to be ashamed of. Do you understand me?" Archie nodded mutely, his tears tracking through the dirt on his cheeks.

"Then go." Mycroft's eyes fluttered shut.

"Scotland Yard, boy," grunted Bennet, glancing up at him. "But first get the damned doctor."

He nodded, his jaw set. "I will, Sir," he whispered, and darted off into the snowy streets.

 **~0~0~**

The storm broke, mirrored in the scratched panes of amber that glared up at him from his cupped palm. The _vegsívir_ burned his fingers- or perhaps it was only the wind and the snow, snapping at his hands like so many howling dogs. He closed his fist tightly about the cursed thing, and dropped it once more into his pocket. It had spent so many years there, so many hours and minutes, that he felt perfectly lost without it and yet- and _yet,_ now that the hour of recompense drew near, he found he was glad to be finally rid of it.

The wind lashed at him, relentless as the old guilts that stood sentinel in the wretched dawn. He pulled the greatcoat tighter about himself, flipping the collar to thwart the sneaking ice as it crept down his neck. Looming up before him, the whiteness of the row of townhouses was unremarkable, the thickening snow only a shade lighter to his eye. Holmes narrowed his eyes, searching the dark windows for any sign of life, any movement that might betray a watchful glare. There was none; the clock had yet to strike five, and the shadows had only just relinquished their tentative hold on the night.

"Looking for someone?" The voice was a murmur in his ear, a silken purr.

Holmes stiffened, his face turning only slightly, his hair coated in white, standing on end. The snow seemed to envelope them, granting them some loathsome sort of privacy as the world went cold and soft.

"Jim Moriarty." Said Holmes, his voice the lowest growl.

"It's been an absolute age, my dear fellow." Moriarty's lips stretched, and bared his teeth in a white grin. " _Did you miss me?_ "


	24. Snowfall

**A/N: I always think I'm going to get this up quicker than the last time, and it almost never happens! Sorry guys! Just know that each chapter goes through about five or six drafts, and the complete agony of writing numerous shitty 1st-2nd-3rd drafts. But I adore you all for reading, and leaving your thoughts! Keep them coming! And as always, a huge thank you to likingthistoomuch for invaluable input! :) xxK**

 **XXIV. Snowfall**

Drifting snowflakes fell from the sky, landing on her upturned cheeks. She could taste the snow on her lips, feel it on her lashes; silent, and soft, as memory. It lay thick about her, a blanket of stinging cold. She could not feel her feet, bare as they were. And though the dressing gown Mycroft had leant her was quilted and warm, it could not withstand the winter frost.

Molly shuddered wretchedly, twisting her body to laboriously draw her bound feet close to what meager warmth her body held. It was useless; her legs could only bend so far, and she was so stiff, so cold, that her muscles would scarcely obey her demands.

"I'll be dead," her voice was rough, the words callous, her throat screaming around her chattering tongue. "I'll b-be dead before you k-kill me!"

Soames paused to look at her, leaning ponderously upon his spade with one arm. His worn boots had torn ankle deep holes in the thick snow, and the pile of muddy dirt beside him grew ever larger, swelling up over the ground like a bloated stomach. He breathed heavily, frowning at her as he pushed the lank, sweaty strands of red hair from his eyes.

"Like hell," he said in a surly voice. He rolled his shoulders, grimacing as they stretched and popped.

"I will," Molly insisted. Her voice grew stronger as she pushed past the burning of her throat, her tongue, her nose. "Or uncon- unconscious, or… h-h- _hypothermic,_ " she managed to rasp.

"What's that, then, eh? 'ypothermic?"

"When- when your body becomes so- so c-c- _cold_ \- that it starts to- to- "

"Alright, alright, keep yer shirt on," Soames grumbled, throwing the spade down in disgust. She followed him with her eyes as he moved among the headstones, picking his way carefully through his earlier footsteps. Behind him, higher up the hill, loomed the great house, lonely and cold. There did not seem to be anyone living in it, nor any servants left to tend to the house in the wintertime. The windows loomed, dark and empty as pitch; eyes that did not see, or care. And the pallid, deathly chill that emanated from within drifted out over the graveyard, whispering its tragedy in the swirling flakes of snow.

Molly was no fool: it had taken her scarcely a moment to recognize her whereabouts. The graves loomed beside her head, at her feet and elbow, speckled across the yard like so many pebbles tossed from a gardener's hand. And as far as she could crane her neck, the names sneered down at her, one after the other: _William Holmes. Malcolm Holmes. Elizabeth Holmes, Maisie Holmes._ The ancestors of Sherlock Holmes judged her, their souls filling up the air so densely that at times she was afraid to breathe, afraid to incur their wrath, or their scrutiny. The names advanced on and on, brothers, sisters, uncles, husbands and wives and cousins thrice removed. Some were so weathered that she could not read them at all, but the presence of the old stones marked the land, a promise of a mind laid to rest in the old, wealthy and powerful house of Holmes. _This_ was Sherlock's childhood home, once upon a time; this was where he had been born, where he had gathered together the bits of himself that made him, intrinsically, _him._

She might have wondered what had become of them all, had she been in any fit state to do so- but Soames was already returning, carrying a thick tartan horse blanket in his arms. "Here, then." He said, and deposited it in front of her, scowling.

Molly glowered back at him, struggling to sit upright and earning only an icy earful of snow for her troubles. " _Cover me."_ She demanded imperiously, lifting her bound wrists as best as she was able. "Or s-sit me up; I do no good to you if I f- _freeze_ to death."

He grabbed her roughly by the forearms and dragged her, grunting as the tendons stood out on his neck, to the nearest headstone. _Florian Holmes!_ The stone winked down at her, _1712- 1763. Requiescet in pace._ She huddled into the cold stone as he carelessly draped the blanket over her. Her feet, all but blue from their bindings and the cold combined, flopped forlorn and uncovered in the snow. She struggled, attempting to cover herself more fully- but Soames kicked at the blanket, yanking the edge farther up her leg.

"Ye won't need yer toes," he remarked, before stalking away and reclaiming his spade. She growled, her teeth chattering violently as she twitched the blanket, inch by inch, into place. Ducking her head, she let out a gasping sob- _how_ , she wondered to herself, _how had she never suspected him?_ When she had finally come round, and seen Soames's face coming into slow, bleary focus, she could have laughed. He had always seemed too stupid; too drunk, or surly, or dim-witted to be of any actual use. And now, because she had become too embroiled in those ghastly murders, and the sparkling wit and temper of the enigmatic Mr. Holmes, she had lost sight of the very real danger she had always known was present. Now Sherlock was not here; nor Dr. Watson, or Mycroft, or Inspector Lestrade. She was once again nothing but a silly little girl: dull, dim Molly Hooper, caught in a web of her own folly and soaked to the bone in a bed of snow. _I will die here_ , she thought. The notion did not move her.

She watched through slitted eyes as Soames continued to dig, the dirty snow flying from his spade in great wending arcs to spatter over the ground. The blood from her chafed wrists dribbled down her forearms as she tugged indifferently at the bonds, her impatience growing by the second until she smacked her head back against the headstone in hopeless fury. She was _tired,_ so tired and angry with herself, with _Sherlock,_ that she could scarcely breathe- !

It was then that she felt it, sharp enough to slide against her skin and stab sharply at her ribs. She gasped, looking wildly behind her- but there was nothing. Soames picked languidly at his hole, and not a soul save the dead crowded near. Gingerly, she eased her hands beneath the dressing gown and into the mangled corset that was still tied about her waist. There, the veins of boning had finally given way and cracked, one jagged length piercing through the fabric and pressing firmly into her skin. A vague hope bloomed as she grasped at it and tugged. Slowly, stubbornly, the bone came loose into her hand, a slender thing that fit exquisitely in her palm. She had always detested corsets, and the great lengths that women went to to procure their tiny waists: they were uncomfortable in the extreme, and she had great reason to believe they prodded her innards to places where they ought not to be. But in that moment, she could not have been more grateful for her ever-lingering sense of prudence and modesty, in the uncomfortable, terrible shape of a corset. The line of bone had cracked lengthwise, and was sharp along its edge; sharp enough, she dared to hope, to cut through the hempen bonds on her wrists and feet.

There was no time to consider, simply the need to do, and do quickly. She glanced at Soames swiftly- he was doggedly determined, it seemed, to dig his hole- and covered herself her head with the blanket afresh. Gritting her teeth, she pushed past the unbearable cold that numbed her limbs. Whatever Soames had planned for her, she would meet it headlong, with all her limbs free and unbound. She seized the bone between her teeth, lowered her head, and bent her will to the tedious task.

 **~0~0~**

He followed the man with leaden steps, through the snow that clung, like limpets, to his shoes; into the townhouse, looming white against the grey sky. Its borders were fenced, as every other house on that row- and there was nothing in its plainness to recommend it as the home of a murderer. Holmes closed the door behind himself as they entered the foyer, the _snick_ of the mechanism emptying itself into the early-morning stillness. Unwrapping himself delicately from his overcoat, Jim Moriarty hung both it and his hat upon the rack, as indifferently as if he had come from taking the weather. He gestured for the detective to do the same, but Holmes only stared back, his mouth a thin, firm line as his hands made their way firmly into his pockets. Shrugging, Moriarty led the way down the hallway, dark and spartan as a prison cell. The floorboards groaned underfoot, an old home's half-hearted welcome to its master. Moriarty slowed as they approached his study, and held the door open, ushering Holmes inside. Several lamps were already lit, and at the hearth knelt a maid, coaxing the meager fire into more persistent life.

"Oh- forgive me, Mr. Brook- I could not find Soames, so I thought- " Julie rose awkwardly, brushing the soot stains from her apron.

"Nothing to forgive, my dear," replied Moriarty warmly, though the smile did not entirely reach the cold flicker of his eyes. "Though I am sure our guest could do with tea. It's quite the storm out there." Julie glanced up at him and smiled tentatively in return, before her gaze fell upon Holmes. Her brows bent together, and her mouth fell slightly open, lending her already homely appearance a slightly dim-witted look. Openly she stared at him, her eyes full of questions as Holmes shifted uncomfortably.

"Is there a problem?" Said Moriarty delicately. His eyes flashed, and in the blink of an eye his visage had been robbed of any amiable expression, replaced with something flinty, and hard. His hand darted out to clasp, vice-like, at her elbow, as he hauled her bodily to the door. "It would do you well, girl, to show a bit of _respect_ towards our guest. This is Sherlock Holmes, the _great detective_ , after all, and should not be gawped at by the likes of some common kitchen slut!" He flung her from the room, and she cried out as she hit the opposite wall. "Be quick about it, or it will be more than a bruised shoulder you will be nursing!"

Julie fled silently, the bang of the kitchen door the only sign of acknowledgement she gave. Moriarty burst into sudden high laughter, shaking his head as he shut the door.

"Was that entirely necessary?" Holmes asked waspishly. His eyes took in the room as Moriarty moved to sit behind the large desk. Books of a solely mathematical variety were placed carefully around the study, crowding shelves, stacking themselves dustily into corners. The walls were bare, as were the floors; and though the room gave off an entirely desolate atmosphere, the desk was cluttered with artfully strewn pens, paper and ink.

"Sit, old friend," Jim's voice was that of his boyhood friend, but as Holmes studied him, he found the man before him a _man_ , and not a boy at all. He was a handsome fellow, it was true; but there was something hard-edged about him, in the line of his jaw, the thinness of his lips, the finely carved contour of his brow.

"I am not your _friend_." Holmes intoned. He did not sit, but took two steps closer to the great old desk so that he stood, awkwardly, as Moriarty made himself comfortable.

"No," Moriarty agreed, kicking his legs comfortably atop the desk. He cocked his head, grinning. "The girl knew you."

"I can't imagine how."

"Can't you?" The corner of his mouth twitched in amusement as he considered. "I will tell you why I did it, why I _do_ it- that is, terrorize the poor little kitchen girls. It is because I enjoy it. Fear, in the right hands, is _power,_ with less expenditure of energy. A mathematically sound method of control. Surely you see the logic if it?"

"I do," Holmes conceded, "but I see also that it is a logic twisted to suit the needs of the power-hungry. Tell me, dear Jim, is this the power you wield? The power of life and death, over those poor wretches who may or may not fit your standard of woman?"

"It is a power I wield gladly!" Exclaimed Moriarty, his grin widening as he leaned across the desk. "Just between we two... it's been _awfully_ tedious, selecting my marks, working my way up the pecking order... you see, no one _cares_ about a little parishioner, or a sweet governess. If they should die, it might wag on the tongues of every gossip in their paltry community for perhaps, oh, a month, maybe two- until falling into utter obscurity. But by the time I'd come round to that diplomat's wife! Why, don't you see, it _had_ to be good, fodder enough for those quite excellent tabloids, and enough for even the great Sherlock Holmes to notice. Oh, I admit, I may have had my fun with one or two- that student was just _delightful-_ and I have cultivated a certain taste for the method of my proceedings- "

"On the contrary: I believe your words carry you away. Your entire enterprise was concocted for my specific benefit, for the eyes of one audience member alone."

"Oh, bravo! I must admit, I had been wondering if you'd quite lost your grip. What on Earth kept you from responding to my little hint? Really, Sherlock, _Richard Brook?_ Whatever took you so long? I thought it was quite _painfully_ obvious, and when I was finally compelled to leave you those little notes, the _boots- "_

"Of course it was obvious." Snapped Holmes. He glared into the flames moodily, refusing to meet Moriarty's eyes.

"O-ho! You've been distracted!" He brushed a delicate hand over his lips, hiding the mock-horror that overwhelmed his expression. "Good Lord, Sherlock- _sentiment?_ Truly? Well, well, it seems Mrs. Brook has played her part more flawlessly than even I had anticipated! How very droll!"

"I must insist you leave Miss Hooper out of this." Holmes replied between gritted teeth.

"And I must insist that _Mrs. Margaret Brook_ stays very much a part of this conversation. She is why you are here, after is it, girl? Deliver the tea and be gone with you!" Julie hovered by the door, her face pale as the tea tray wobbled artlessly before her.

" _Quickly!"_ Roared Moriarty, and in a flash a pistol leapt into his hand, aimed at the girl's head in an unwavering grip. "Bring it here," he said coolly. Julie's mouth dropped open and, in a rare moment of perfect control, she bent her shaking knees, and deposited the tinkling tray on the desk between the men. She backed out of the room, her eyes never once leaving the pistol.

" _Close the damnable door!"_ With a squeak of dismay, Julie's hand darted back, slamming the door shut behind her.

"You're quite comfortable with that weapon in your hands." Remarked Holmes after a moment. Moriarty leaned forward, dropping the pistol to the desk with a dull clatter. He shrugged, carefully selecting a few lumps of sugar before depositing them into both their cups

"It has its uses, I suppose- but I much prefer a more drawn-out style."

"You strangled those women."

"That I did," Moriarty admitted, frowning at the dark brown liquid before him. "Forgive me, did you take two sugars? Or three? I seem to have forgotten, after all these years."

"You admit it, then? Readily?"

"Oh, _Sherlock,_ why do you insist on being so dreadfully tiresome? Haven't I just admitted my guilt? Of course I strangled them! I cut their tongues out, too, would you like to see?"

" _Why- "_

"Oh, go on, you're curious, admit it! Just the one then, shall we?" He rubbed his hands together agreeably, and dove beneath the desk, unlocking the bottom-most drawer. "There now," he said, placing a small glass jar atop the table. "This one's my favorite. Oh, but you knew this one, didn't you? Quite the pity, she was a pretty one- though not entirely my taste, you see. The tongue… it's really the _vilest_ part of a woman, wouldn't you agree? Why, if a woman had no tongue, she could not sing! Or express any other opinion, for that matter. Now, if your _sister_ had been relieved of her tongue…" he lapsed into sudden brooding silence, nursing the teacup between his hands.

Irene Adler's tongue bobbed, like a grotesque, pale worm in its yellowish liquid. Holmes found that he could not tear his gaze away. The fury began to build behind his eyes, hot and red as molten steel. "My _sister."_ he began after a moment, and leaned down, his stare narrowing as he looked into the face of his boyhood friend. Without breaking his gaze, his hand dove suddenly into his pocket, producing that long-suffering talisman, that _vegsívir_ , into the palm of his hand. Moriarty looked curiously up at him over the rim of his cup, his smile tremulous as he sipped his tea.

"James Moriarty, I have come to _end this_. You will release all claim you have over Molly Hooper; your farce of a marriage is null and void. Here: _take it."_ He threw the little thing down upon the desk in disgust, where it bounced once, and lay still.

Moriarty swirled a graceful pinky in his tea, tapped it once on the rim, and carefully placed it in his mouth, sucking it consideringly. "Too much sugar, I think." He sighed regretfully, laying his cup upon the table before reaching with one hand to bring the _vegsívir_ to his face. "I haven't seen this in decades," he murmured. As he twisted it in the firelight, the amber panes shone their glittering reflection down upon his face. "How long has it been, Sherlock, since your sister stole it from me? Twenty years? Thirty?"

" _Twenty-four."_ Holmes snarled. "And it has burned a hole in my pocket ever since that day."

"Well… thank you. It was good of you, to keep it warm for me. However…" he paused, and abruptly it had left his hand, sailing across the room to land in the crackling hearth. "It is completely irrelevant now. What's done is done, I say!"

Holmes tensed, his fingers flexing as if they craved to find purchase on Moriarty's neck. "If you think you will not answer for your crimes- "

"What crimes?" Moriarty cried, crossing his legs as he leant more comfortably into his chair. "I admit my guilt, but I see no crime. _Women_ \- they are a ridiculous breed. And besides, it's been ever so much fun, watching you run about, watching you fall in love, watching you _squirm_ \- I could not have planned it better! And it was all for you, Sherlock- don't deny how much you've enjoyed this! You were becoming _bored_ with your little life, were you not? An elder brother, a dear friend, a bumbling Inspector… add a doe-eyed womanand, ah! The very picture of _commonplace._ It was quite disgusting, and at times I wondered if you were worth it at all- but there was too much at stake, you see. I could not give you up… and now, we have but the final move to be played! _"_

"There are _no more moves!_ The game is up, Jim, and Mycroft will have seen to the police force already: _you are out of options."_

" _Am I?"_ Moriarty hissed suddenly, leaping to his feet to pace in front of the hearth. "Oh, no, I don't believe so. We're really only just beginning, you and I."

Holmes suddenly pulled his own pistol from his pocket, holding it at arms length, his pale eyes flashing furiously. "You _will_ return with me to Scotland Yard. We may leave at once, or you may wait, and benefit from the full force of Inspector Lestrade and his men."

Moriarty's shadow seemed to quiver, the hearth fire throwing its flickering movements spilling over the floorboards. Every step he took was that of a stalker, a curious animal intent on the one living, breathing form standing before him. And only when the barrel of the pistol lay flush with his chest did Moriarty stop, pushing gently against the weapon, embracing its cold kiss. Their faces were mere inches apart, so close that Holmes could feel the warmth of his breath tickle his chin. "You could kill me now," Jim whispered, his eyes large and dark as wells. "Have your vengeance. It would be so much... _easier."_

Holmes looked down upon the man and saw the child, once a friend. Jim's lips were parted, like a lover's, flushed and excited at the merest hint of blood, be it his own, or another's- it mattered not. And suddenly he could see inside him; how ugly, and worthless, and weak he was, deep down in the obscurity of his soul. With a sudden lurch of revulsion, Sherlock pushed away, clutching for the desk behind him. "I will _not_ kill you in such a manner, I- I am no executioner!"

"When did you become so insufferably _boring!"_ Jim burst out furiously, and whirled, reaching for the first object his hand could grasp. The jar burst against the hearthstones, the fire bursting into sudden roaring flame. The smell of mortified, burning flesh filled the air, as Irene Adler's tongue blackened in the hearth. "Have you once," he continued, his fist grasping at his hair as he pulled in agitation, " _Once_ since entering my little domain, stopped to consider Mrs. Brook?"

" _Do not speak her name."_ Growled Sherlock, his voice trembling in barely suppressed rage.

"Ah, there! There it is! _Sentiment_ , my dear man, you are letting sentiment drive you! Did you consider that Miss Molly might not follow your _express_ intentions? That she might have realized your course, and gone after you?"

The pistol was warm in his hand, and he raised it, wavering, to point again into Jim's face. A storm of ire pulsed through his veins, thundering like a drum so that his ears were filled with a broad, bottomless throb. He steadied the pistol with his other hand, and felt the phantom itch of his finger against the trigger. "Do _not.._." he whispered. And what he had nursed as fury, he suddenly realized, was not fury at all but _fear,_ fear of some unknown that had taken a deep, icy root in his belly.

Moriarty's eyes widened, and he laughed humorlessly, shaking his head. "Don't fuss- she's not as silly as all that, to run off half-cocked. _However…"_

"You have her," He whispered. Somehow, he had known it all along, and the realization slammed into him like a physical force. The myriad ways in which he had failed Molly Hooper leapt up before his eyes, the list bottomless, enduring, and permanent. He blinked rapidly, once, twice. _What have I done?_

"I _do."_ Moriarty conceded fervently. "Oh, Sherlock, I _do_ have her. And it's _wonderfully_ delicious."

"Tell me where." A vein throbbed alarmingly in his temple. His jaw set like stone.

"Ah, ah, but that's not how the game is- "

" _Tell me where!"_ Sherlock roared, leaping forward and pinning Jim to the wall. With one hand he lifted him by his collar, the other pressed the barrel of the cold pistol solidly to his forehead. "Another game, another _trick_ , is that it? A trap to lead me to my own doom? Tell me where, or by _God_ , I will _trim the wall with your brains!_ "

"Oh, Sherlock," Jim smiled sadly even as he gasped in one deep breath after another. "I loved once too, you know. Eurus belonged to _me,_ just as Margaret belongs to _me._ Point that somewhere else, would you?" He batted the pistol aside, shoving at the hand at his throat. "No, you won't kill me, you _need_ me, were you always this insufferably stupid? And you wish me to tell you? Hah! I won't do that either, I'm afraid. I lost Eurus and you lose Molly. An eye for an eye- it's only _fair._ "

"But it was you- youwho killed her!" Sherlock burst out, his eyes dark and ragged with grief and rage intertwined as he sagged against the desk. " _You_ killed her, you cut her hair- you _drowned_ her, in the Reichenbach river, in those woods- "

"Oh, what _difference_ does it make?" Jim spat, seizing his own weapon from the desk. "Yes, I dealt the killing blow, but was it not _your_ hand that delivered the dagger?"

"I- "

"No." Said Jim flatly, locking his gaze with Sherlock. "You did it. You killed her, Sherlock, you killed the girl I loved, will love, have _forever_ loved- she was _everything_ , don't you see? And- and the _two of you-_ the two of you _deserved_ to be punished. She was _mine. You_ took her from me, _you_ forced my hand- "

"And what if I admitted it, now, after all these years? We were heathens, but she was a _child! I_ was a child, we all were! Eurus was cleverer, more in control than either of us- "

"Until it got her _killed._ And now, Sherlock, you will understand what my life has been. Eurus begged for you, did you know that? She screamed _for you._ Do you think Molly will do the same? _Death-_ it's so final, isn't it? The solution to all problems. No man, no _woman_ \- no problem. I think, my friend, that it is time I handed the reins to you." Jim lifted the pistol, his face twisted, and sad. "Tick, tock, dear Sherlock, _tick tock._ I should like to see that magnificent brain of yours work, one last time."

"Jim," Sherlock shouted, his eyes widening as he jerked his own weapon to attention. " _James_ , for the love of God! Don't do this, _tell me- !"_

But with a final wild grin, James Moriarty twisted the pistol in his two hands, rammed the barrel into his own wide, gaping mouth, and fired.

 **~0~0~**

Her lips were chapped and bloody beneath a sandpaper tongue, and the taste of sick coated the back of her throat. Cold bit through her like the bitter kiss of a knife, an ache and a numbness all at once- but her blood pumped unceasingly, bringing with it her warm, wet life. And though she could scarcely feel her toes, nor the chafing about her wrists, Molly Hooper would not give in. The dead lay all around her, their bones buried deep. Her hand clutched at the slender stick of bone, fingering its dulled point. Glancing at the grey sun settling above the horizon, she mumbled a few thankful words to Sherlock for ripping her corset into shambles. For if he had not done so, she knew beyond a certainty that her hands and feet would still be tied, and she would not have had even this slim chance.

Soames' face twitched as he stared down at her. He stood with his hands stuffed into his pockets, a crude cigarette clutched between his teeth. "What's that yer whisperin'?" He barked suspiciously, the cigarette flailing while he spoke

"I said, _I never liked you._ " The words felt jagged in her rasping throat, and she grimaced, spitting up the foul taste that lingered in mouth. The spittle landed in the snow, yellow and speckled with red, and she nearly wretched at the sight of it.

"Never liked ye neither," Soames replied sourly, his lip curling. With one hand he wiped at the line of snot that ran from his nose, pooling delicately in the cupid's bow of his stubbly upper lip. "Is there anything more _disgusting_ than frozen sweat?" He asked to no one in particular. Plucking at his shirt vaguely, he sucked at the thin cigarette, a noise of disgust curling in the back of his throat. Little clouds of foul-smelling smoke curled about his ears, mingling easily with the thinning snow.

"Was it chloroform?" She asked suddenly. He stared at her, his eyes narrowed as she offered a small, grim smile. "I was only wondering. It seems only right that I should know the particulars of my murder from the man himself."

Soames grunted, flinging the spent butt to smolder among the tombstones. "Took ye long enough. 'Course it was. What else could it be, eh?"

"Laudanum," she sighed, burrowing deeper into the blanket. "Morphine, ether- "

"Ye're awfully calm, for a woman who's about to meet her maker."

"I'm not fearful of death, if that's what you mean."

"That's _exactly_ what I mean. Why? If t'were me, I'd be fightin', like. Why aren't you? Ye're just sittin' there, calm as ye please. Do ye think he's going to save ye, is that it? _Sherlock Holmes_ will ride in on a great white horse, and smite me down with his bare hands; whisk the fair, faintin' maid off into the sunset? Let me tell ye, Mrs. Brook, that en't the way of it."

"I am aware of that. Thank you, Soames, for taking the time from your busy schedule to enlighten me."

He scowled at her, wiping the back of his gloved hand across his leaking nose. "Suit yerself, then." He turned his back to her, bending to retrieve the spade.

"Wait!" she gasped out. She could not say why she sought to keep him, but the questions seemed to bubble up all at once, falling out of her mouth in a desperate bid to keep him occupied. "Who are you, really?" Molly babbled. "You cannot possibly be Mr. Brook's valet- you were always absolute rubbish at it! I've seen you countless times, snoring away in the kitchen with your head on your arms. I'm sure you've never even _been_ a servant- who would hire you? Mr. Brook would certainly not! And yet here you are..." she trailed off uncertainly as Soames glowered ferociously down at her, his fingers flexing.

" _Servant,"_ he spat. "What a nasty bloody word. What's the meaning of it, anyway? _Servant._ Every man should wipe the shit off 'is own arse, I say. Jim never needed a _valet-_ he's low-born, like me; low as ye can get."

"But how- "

"Oh spare me, Mrs. Brook! There's much in his life that a man can do, t'raise 'imself up. Jim has always been clever, an' I've always been right there, by his side. We was in the army together, we was; and I tell ye now, there are no closer brothers than those wot fight side by side. I fight his battles, and he fights mine."

"And what of your battles has he fought for you, Soames?"

Soames flushed a deep shade of red, the pink the cold had produced in his cheeks obliterated in the sight of his fury. "Don't call me that," he sneered, baring his teeth. " _Soames._ My name is Moran, _Sebastian_ Moran- but _Soames_ was a good enough character to get the coppers off my tail. An' Mr. Brook- _Jim_ \- has fought my battles more faithfully than the likes of ye could ever know. And I'm going to kill ye, girl, not only cos' yer Sherlock Holmes has done my friend a deep injustice, but because _I know yer like._ Yer Father is scum, an' it goes to reason that ye're made from the same cloth- I've seen it! Do not think I 'ave not marked the way ye treat poor Jim, when all he has ever done is care for ye! No- _I_ care for him, an' it brings me great pleasure to carry out his wishes." he shrugged, leering at her.

"You know my father?" She asked blankly. His sentiments to Mr. Brook sloughed off her like raindrops over an umbrella; suddenly, she could not give a fig whether Mr. Brook was high or low-born, or if his mother was the Queen. But her _Father..._ she did not know whether to scream, or rejoice at his name. The bone felt suddenly like a toy in her grasp; a slim and useless needle, and nothing of the blade she truly wished it was.

"Ech! He was a craven; not worth much, to be sure."

"My father is _not- "_

"Not what, eh? Ye think he's a good man, do ye? 'S not my place to say, but if I 'ad a daughter, I don't think I would sell 'er off to save me own skin. But, maybe I would, I 'spose- our necks are all precious while our heads are attached, after all."

Molly stared at him wordlessly, her mouth dry. " _What did he do?"_ She croaked finally. Soames- _Moran-_ smirked, groaning slightly as he bent to pick up his spade.

"Too long a story, girlie; look, the sun's half risen, and this hole won't dig itself. It's about bloody time we laid all o' that detective's arrogance to rest. Look at his sister, there, Mrs. Brook- I want ye to _look_ at the company ye'll keep for eternity. And I want ye to know that I am _honored_ to do the task."

She followed the direction in which his long, shivering finger pointed- and felt her insides turn to ice. Above the hole he had dug for her was an exquisitely carved headstone, rising up out of the dirty snow like a dark and menacing thing. She had seen it, and had not seen it all at once; had not wished to allow her thoughts to tread that path.

 _In Loving Memory of Eurus Holmes,_ it read.

 _1861-1868._

In silence, the snow drifted downward. Snowflakes coated her lashes, and landed on her parted lips. "Eurus Holmes." Molly said flatly. Slowly, she turned her gaze to Moran, who stared intently back at her. "Mr. Brook killed her." She wasn't sure how she knew, but the weight of that realization settled heavily upon her, charging her with truth.

Moran scoffed, shuffling the spade between his gloved hands. "Ye know nothin', girl."

"You're wrong about that," she shook her head slowly, a slow, mirthless smile spreading over her face. "But you'd best get on with it. Go on- finish my grave. "

"As ye will then, Mrs. Brook," Moran did not smile, but his glance lingered intently before he turned away.

"And I beg you," she continued in a low voice, the sharp little bone clinging to her frozen palm, "to never call me Mrs. Brook- " The horse blanket pooled about her bare, stinging feet; her blood pounded a tattoo in her veins. "- _ever- "_ The legs beneath her found sudden strength, bending, vaulting, carrying her not three feet from him, from the lip of the gaping grave- " _again!_ " She shrieked the word, and as he turned, she saw that his eyes had widened in alarm, judging her, calculating her, fearing her. She leapt upon him then, screaming in wordless fury as she plunged the corset boning down into the white of his throat, again, and again, ripping the joining of his bony chin and neck to ragged, fleshy shreds. But the sudden joy of conquering was cut short as the spade surged up to greet her, slicing its way down over her back and biting deeply into her thigh. Together, they clung _together_ , in a flurry of nails and teeth and fear and fury; together they toppled over the edge, and into the gaping maw of her tomb.

" _Molly,"_ she whispered, as his weight jerked and heaved above her, his life-blood thick and steaming in the winter air. She tasted snowflakes, sparkling cold, upon her tongue.

" _My name is Molly."_


	25. The House on the Hill

**A/N: GUYS. I am so sorry. I feel like I'm always apologizing, but there is just. never. enough. time! Anyway- here it is. Hope you like it, hope I did our Sherlock and Molly some justice..! Thank you all so much for reading, and dropping a line- I can't thank you all enough! (Also- 100 favs! Woo!)**

 **One more chapter left, and an epilogue... after almost two years, this has been a crazy ride. Thank you!**

 **XXV. The House on the Hill**

The air was electric. Like so many tiny spiders, the shivers crept up the length of his spine. He breathed the stale air in deeply, and felt the hairs on the nape of his neck stand slowly on end.

 _Blood_.

There was blood in the air; the sharp, metallic tang of it biting deep into his nose, the lazier waft of gunpowder declaring itself in a whiff of smoke as it drifted past. They were twin scents which he had known often enough in days past, and had hoped never again to know so intimately. But John Watson was soldier and doctor both, and so as he inhaled, he knew two things instantly: Death, or something close to it, had been dealt here- and thus _danger,_ and all its pitfalls, lingered long after.

"Could be dangerous," he murmured under his breath. Taking the single step over the threshold, he tightened his grip about the pistol.

"I bloody well know that, would you _get on with it?_ " Hissed Lestrade behind him. "I'll do you no good if you won't let me in!"

John moved warily forward, cocking the pistol's hammer with the edge of his thumb. The sound seemed to echo about the foyer, and in the dim sunlight that streamed through the windows, every object, every hat stand and cabinet assumed the stance of a threat. At the far end of the corridor before them, the flickering light of a low fire danced across the ground. The great shadow of a lamp cast its darkness down across the wedge of light, willowy and tall.

It moved.

In a moment John had his back to the wall, his hand darting out to pull Lestrade along with him. The Inspector gasped in surprise, backing into a cabinet as he staggered after John's movements. His revolver slipped from his hand and, as they both watched in horror, clattered deafeningly to the floor. With an enormous _bang!_ it exploded, shooting off down the corridor in a shower of sparks.

A shriek rang out; the sound of glass shattering filled the air. " _Please_ don't hurt me, don't hurt me I haven't- I haven't done anything, I swear I haven't- _I haven't-!"_ A girl's voice babbled, her voice shrill and wailing. The shadows writhed, confusing themselves into her thin, pale form.

"I thought I told you to _leave!"_ A man roared, and like a cannon-shot Sherlock bolted from the fire-lit room, seizing the maid by her shoulders and shaking her wildly. " _Be gone!"_

"Sherlock!" John shouted in dismay, rushing forward as Lestrade stood aghast behind him. "What the devil is going on? Mycroft- "

"I don't _care_ about Mycroft- I want her gone- " his eyes were wide as he pointed a trembling finger at Julie, who flung herself, cowering, against the wall.

"Mycroft was shot!" John exclaimed. Sherlock's eyes widened, and he fell back. "Go, girl," said John quickly, his voice low, "No good can come of your being here." He did not look away from his friend, leaning his head back against the door jamb as he thrust a cut and bloodied hand into his untamed curls. Julie pushed past him without a second glance, sobbing hysterically into her hands. The front door slammed behind her, and suddenly the three men were alone, with the flickering light and the odd, biting smell of- _formaldehyde?_ John wondered.

"Sherlock," he approached with a careful, outstretched hand, as if the detective were some feral beast. "Mycroft- he-"

"I know he's alright," Sherlock sighed wearily. "You wouldn't be… as you are…" he gestured vaguely, "if he wasn't."

John nodded. "An arm wound- nothing serious, but he was lucky the shot was so wildly fired. Only…" he paused, unsure of how to break the news.

Sherlock closed his eyes. "Molly was kidnapped."

"I- how did you know? What's happened?"

His mouth twitched, and he met John's gaze, only to skitter away. "I can't think," he mumbled, letting his head fall back with a _thud_ against the door.

"What do you mean, you can't think?" Lestrade asked quizzically, pocketing his revolver.

"I cannot THINK!" Sherlock exploded, launching himself forward and into the room. The men followed, but stopped as he took up a curt, a circular pacing, the crunch of glass present with every step. "I cannot _think_ , nor _breathe_ , nor do a damned thing! Is this what it's like?" Sherlock halted suddenly, eyeing them both as if he had seen them for the first time. "Is this what it's like, in those funny little brains of yours? Dear God, but it must be excruciating- "

"Are those- are those _tongues?_ " Lestrade broke in incredulously, squatting down to have a closer look at the floor. Filthy was not an apt enough word to describe the room; utter tumult and chaos dabbed the floorboards and walls. The books had been ripped from their shelves, their bindings torn and shredded as the pages soaked in the stinking brine that coated the floor, lapping languidly at their boots. The tongues, those broken pieces of flesh, were scattered amongst the broken glass like so many sodden slugs, reeking and limp. And slumped against the far wall, blocked from view by the spindly old desk, peered the boots of a man, and a smearing, sticky trail of red.

John moved forward, his perspective widening step by step as he moved, slowly, around the desk. "Jim Moriarty," he breathed, looking down at the dead man. Crouching, John studied the body before him. He had been handsome once, before the bullet ripped through the confinement of his skull. The back of his head had exploded outward, his hair slick and wet, the upper limits of the wall stained in flecks of blood and bone and tissue. "What in God's name have you done?" He asked, turning to Sherlock, who stared stonily back at him.

"I didn't kill him, if that is what you mean- this handiwork is of his own sorry devising."

"I wouldn't blame you if you had, but- _he has Molly_."

"I am _aware."_

"Then- "

"I _told_ you," Sherlock burst out suddenly, kicking at a half-broken jar that had rolled near his foot. "I cannot think! I cannot do anything, and in so doing _I know I've killed her._ I find myself at a complete loss, as if my brain has never come to one conclusion, solved one puzzle in all of its _thirty-two years!_ Moriarty- he is a madman, John, _was_ a madman," he laughed hysterically, scrubbing both blood-spattered hands over his face. "He told me he took her and- God help me, I now have confirmation! He took my sister, _killed my sister,_ all those years ago, and now- "

"Sherlock, _look at me."_ John snapped, seizing both of his arms in a steely grip. "She may yet still be alive! You _must think_ , you're the only one of us that can do this- "

But Sherlock pushed away violently, pointing a shaking hand at Lestrade. "You've brought the Inspector, you've no need of me! No need- at all- carry on, then, carry on- "

In one fluid movement, John stepped forward, raised his fist, and hit him squarely across the cheek. His lips drew into a fine line beneath his bristling mustache as he watched his friend stagger back against the fireplace, astonishment and sudden flickering awareness warring in his pale eyes. Slowly, he touched the spot high on his cheekbone, where the skin had split and the blood welled. The red stood out against his white fingertip as he held it close to his gaze. His eyelids flickered, and his stare darted to John, standing grimly with his shoulders back, ever the soldier.

" _Help me,"_ he said, and his voice cracked upon the words.

 **~0~0~**

"A sledge would have been better a company, in this weather," Lestrade muttered under his breath. They had ridden in strangled silence for the better part of an hour, each man caught up in the web of his own twisting thoughts. Neither Watson nor Holmes responded. He blew a nervous cloud of steam from his mouth, his gloved fingers tapping earnestly against the seat in nervous anticipation. The snow continued to fall in its unrelenting stillness, packing together into a hard, crackling surface beneath the wheels of the carriage.

"Bloody awful weather. Still, at least it's not _terribly_ cold, eh?" He rubbed his hands together hopefully as he glanced again at Holmes. The detective sat stoically, staring out at the grey expanse that was London. The buildings had begun to thin, the slow breadth of the country creeping up to greet them. Lestrade swallowed uneasily, and sighed. "Chin up, Holmes," he murmured. "Stiff upper lip, and all that. I'm sure we'll- "

"What exactly is it that you're sure of?" Sherlock snapped finally, turning to stare at the Inspector. "That we'll find her? Yes, I expect we will. That she'll be alive?" His fist tightened in his lap. "Of that I cannot be certain. Although this DAMNABLE trap might move faster!" He bellowed suddenly, lurching as far upright as the carriage would allow as his fist slammed heavily against the roof. The driver squawked something unintelligible from his perch outside and Sherlock collapsed, his head falling into his hands.

John glanced up, and saw that the blow had left a more than sizable impression. "Sherlock, the horses cannot possibly go faster, and you know the state of the trains," he said delicately, laying a hand upon his friend's sleeve.

"I don't _care!"_ Sherlock exclaimed, raising his head to glare at him. "What I know is that, sometime in the very near future, one of these new-fangled engines the tabloids have been in an uproar over will have developed far enough to allow travelers to travel through a snowstorm at outrageous speeds, and I will be in possession of one of these machines. What I know is that the horses currently hauling our carriage have not been cared for in any sort of laudable manner, and are traveling at a truly unremarkable pace. In fact, it might be kinder to shoot them. What I _know_ is that Molly is out there, and that I have most likely killedher with the intolerable- this- I have- I have _killed her_ \- "

"Stop it." John hissed, tightening his grip. "Stop this madness, Sherlock. There is no use, as you've told me many times before, in ripping ourselves to shreds without a single grain of truth. Yes, Molly is out there, in the gravest of danger, and _yes,_ I swear to you this is the fastest possible way to her. I swear it. And there is very little we can do, here and now. So I must insist, my friend, before you do something uncommonly idiotic: tell us how you know. Tell us what we'll find."

"I've already told you!" Sherlock exclaimed petulantly, drawing his greatcoat closer about himself, holding himself in.

"No, you've not: you've simply given us that _look-_ there, that's the one- that assumes we've all followed your line of logic."

"Haven't you?" He mumbled, the lines of his face taut.

"Holmes," Lestrade broke in uncomfortably. Both men turned their stares to him. He swallowed, looking from one to the other. "I regret- I regret to say I am even farther behind than Dr. Watson. I could not have solved this case without you, or countless other ones. You must understand when I say that Dr. Watson and I are wholly indebted to you, and… we could not forgive ourselves, if anything should happen to Miss Hooper. So I must humbly beg you to give us whatever information, whatever might come in useful to- "

"You fail to recognize that it is no longer a matter of _finding_ her, it is a matter of _saving_ her, and it grates the nerves tremendously to know that we are- " Sherlock glanced from the window. The pale sunlight skittered across the snowy fields, attempting to blind him. "- at least five miles off and plodding at the interminable tempo of a bloody _tortoise!"_

"Nevertheless- "

"Spare me your courtesies, Lestrade- if I had wanted another idiot in tow, I would have sent for Mrs. Hudson." He snarled. Lestrade reeled back as if struck, the hurt and anger on his face unmistakable as his lips compressed tightly. John stared impassively out of the window, unmoving.

"Forgive me," Sherlock said after a moment, and the words hung in the air, foreign and absurd as they dropped from his lips. "That was… unkind."

John's head turned, his brow raised. "Where are we going, Sherlock?" He asked flatly.

Sherlock sighed heavily. "Home."

"I'm sorry- _wh-_ "

"Oh for God's sake, home, _my_ home, my _childhood home,_ Musgrave Hall. That is where my sister is buried."

"Moriarty- he killed your sister, you said, when you were children?" John frowned. Sherlock refused to meet his gaze, raising his eyes to the dent in the roof as the carriage trundled ponderously on.

"You mean to tell me _that man_ back there was responsible for killing your sister?" Exclaimed Lestrade, aghast. "I didn't even know you had a sister, much less- "

"Inspector, please do us the uncommon courtesy of remaining silent until I conclude my thoughts, or your ruminations on the matter will go precisely nowhere. Now. As I was saying, Jim Moriarty is guilty of the death of my sister, and countless others, though Eurus was the first in this long line. These killings, I regret to inform you, have all been staged for my exclusive benefit, and have now culminated in the death of Miss Irene Adler, and the kidnapping of Miss Molly Hooper. And how, you ask, do I know where we will find Miss Hooper now? I admit, I could not have solved this riddle without… without John's help. But understanding that these acts were intensely personal- and, of course, coupled with his boots- "

"His boots?" Asked John, lifting his head and staring intently. "Was it the make? The treads?"

Sherlock smiled thinly, inclining his head. "It's ironic, isn't it? The foot speaks volumes. Boots- they were his first clue to me, John, do you remember it? It is no coincidence. Moriarty's boots were of a good, stiff leather; the sort that one pulls on against the weather. They were wet, and uniformly so, past the start of the lacings. This is to be expected, as I saw for myself that he entered from outdoors. But do you see the snow outside, John? Is it not less in the city proper, than our current country whereabouts?"

John nodded. "I see it."

"Snow melts at a faster pace in the city; the cumulative heat of buildings and bodies and the constant pounding of pedestrian feet. The water stains were past his lacings; he could not have so soaked his boots unless he had been in the country or romping in a particular mound of snow- possible, but highly unlikely. You see with this simple observation, and armed with the knowledge of my sister, I might put together a hypothesis. However, it was the mud lodged between the treads of his boots that make an irrefutable argument. The land upon which Musgrave Hall was built holds a peculiar history. The earth is red clay: there is a deposit of minerals which turns it such a curious color, and it is the only such deposit for miles around in either direction. It has made the nearby forest particularly rich, and the land yields a good crop with the local farmers. Musgrave's land is particularly blessed with this red earth, and it is this crumbling clay that I found between the treads of Moriarty's boots, and caked about the sides. In my... anxiety, I did not at first note its relevance, or the other obscenely clear signs of his presence at my family home early this morning. But mark: he had done nothing at all to hide the fact, and would have counted on my observing them. It is, again, his personal brand of arrogance: once he had completed his ultimate task, the taking of his own life would only serve to punctuate the mess I have made of mine. He has taken Molly to Musgrave Hall, where she will expire slowly- _tick tock_ were his exact, crude words. And they were uttered as a last resort, as he so clearly saw me dissolving into the sentiment that would bar my witness to his final, terrible blow."

"And… what will that be?" Whispered Lestrade, his whole body strained and tense.

Sherlock's eyes fixed him with a colorless stare, so intent, and yet so devoid of concern that the Inspector felt himself grow colder still. "When we arrive, it will be to find Miss Hooper's body, still warm, curled around the corpse of my sister, nestled in her grave. And the weight of both their deaths will take up their proud, heavy mantles, and settle upon my own stooped shoulders."

No one of them dared to speak at this confession, as the horror of the game Moriarty had been playing began to unfurl before their eyes.

"Your sister," began John hesitantly. "Eurus is- "

"Dead, as you know, these past fourteen years."

John stared at his friend. His face was a mask of flat, unseeing marble, with not a spark lurking beneath, or even buried deep. "Do not do this," John whispered. "Do not close yourself off, Sherlock, not now- you must understand, it is balancethat keeps us human, and this balance is _vital_ in saving the ones we love."

"How would you know?" Sherlock laughed dryly.

"Because I test this balance _every single day._ I could so easily have been that husk of a man that you first met, but- my friend, you saved me and, God help me, I will save you, at least from yourself."

The silence was so brittle it could have been shattered by the smallest of movements. In the deliberately moving carriage, as the winter wind battered at the doors, three men held their breath.

And, ever so slowly, Sherlock nodded, the smallest of smiles gracing his lips. "One must do what one can."

"How long, then?" Lestrade asked in a gruff voice. "How long could she survive being… well…"

"Buried alive with the remains of my sister?" White fury flickered, distorting Sherlock's face into a vision of barely controlled pain. He turned to look, again, from the window. "Five and a half hours, if she does not scream. Let us hope she has the sense not to do so."

 **~0~0~**

The carriage edged slowly along the drive, the wheels sticking with every new clot of unturned snow. The ragged _thump, thump_ of the horses, plodding and straining to drag them up the hill was an entirely new form of torture. In his mind's eye he could see their steaming, snorting breaths; the icy sweat slicking their flanks. And suddenly, he could not wait for a single moment longer, nor endure the knowledge that with every minute Molly was slipping further away from him.

" _Enough,"_ he hissed and, as the gate peered over the cusp of the hill, Sherlock slammed himself into the side of the door. It burst open with a bang, and winter's strange light flooded in as he threw himself from the carriage and into the snow. The shouts of his companions rang out, the air exploding in a great flurry of cold, hard white. He landed awkwardly on his side, gasping in shock as the snow found its way down his collar and into his ear. But it mattered not a whit, because _Molly_ was close, and he would not wait, not now, when he was so close. Staggering to the gate, he launched over it, the cold metal biting through the soft leather of his gloves. Snow clung to him, in his mouth and his hair, streaming in tiny rivulets down his open greatcoat and soaking into his shirt. But the graveyard loomed up before him, with first one stone and then another, and another, and another- and there, grey and heavy and lined with old regret, the sketch of the manor house emerged over it all. The breath froze in his chest as he stared at it, its empty windows turned to hard, watchful eyes.

The house on the hill was full of ghosts. And though he knew that time was of the essence, the world seemed to fall away from him, to be dispelled to some long distant place. He could not tear his eyes from the sight of that house, the home that had raised him and dispelled him. The cold lapped about him, buffeting through the air and whispering chilly words in his ear.

Sherlock Holmes stood, silent, un-breathing: and time became an odd, transient thing, as the snow melted about his feet and the ground thrust up scraggly shoots of grass. A sudden great gust tore through his hair, standing it on end as the shout of a child rang through the air. Giggling and panting she charged past him as he looked on, her cheeks red and full of life. Eurus's brown curls bounced as she glanced over her shoulder, her pinafore clutched up into one hand and the _vegvisír_ tight in the other, her gaze sharp and wicked. "Sherlock, come!" She demanded breathlessly. "Come quick, or Jim will find us out!"

"He already _has_ done," he heard himself pant, not ten paces behind his sister- and then he, too, was gone. He watched the little figures disappear, over the crest of the hill, over the windswept path that led to the copse of autumn trees fringing the land. The hairs on his head stood on end, like steadfast soldiers. Slowly, he raised his gaze to the house. It had become bright, alert and watchful as the shadow of his brother standing in the window. And though he was lost in shaded memory, and Mycroft could not have been more than fourteen, his brother lifted his hand, as if in greeting. He had always been large, even at an early age; his stomach ever leading his steps. Mycroft stepped closer to the window, twitching the delicate lace shades back an inch farther, peering intently at him through the warped, ghostly glass. His breath hitched as he stared back at his brother, unsure of where he was, _when_ he was- or if he, Sherlock Holmes, had ever truly existed at all.

The boy darted suddenly between them, his gait ungainly, the lines of his clothes covering the jutting angles of his body. He was all quick eyes and nervous twitches as he paused in his path to look between the brothers; first to one, and then the other.

"Jim," Sherlock heard the words croak from his mouth, " _don't do this_."

The boy turned, facing him. His eyes were dark with an anger and betrayal far beyond his years- and suddenly he was the man fully grown, the hole in his skull expanding outward into mortifying flesh with every passing second. " _Why, Mr. Holmes, it's already been done_."

"Sherlock! _"_ And within a moment John had barreled into him with Lestrade close on his heels, tearing him from the confines of his mind.

The house on the hill was silent. The trees were dead.

"You can't just- " John began, mopping at his brow.

"Can't I?" Sherlock growled, scanning their surroundings. He shook himself slightly, his fist flexing and curling tremulously.

John stared at him skeptically, his eyes narrowed. "Are you al- "

"Of course I'm alright." He snapped, closing his eyes and breathing in the scent of winter. When he opened them, he found they were stood together nearly knee-deep in snow, the graves grey pockmarks against the white expanse. "This way." He growled.

With every step he tore a great, sagging hole, the deep cold creeping, unnoticed, up his calves. His feet knew the way as if it had been yesterday, as if he had never grown old and the days had slipped by unmarked. And, stony-faced, they came to where the grave forced its way up from the earth, _Eurus Holmes, beloved sister, darling, daring, manipulative girl, bones and dust, you drove us all to madness with the tips of your precious fingers._

Only the grave had been opened. The ground fell away beneath their feet into a dank, muddy hole, a patchwork of white, and brown, and red. The snow whirled around them, obscuring their vision and dotting their hair. The coffin was a dull thing, half edged in mud and sediment. It was the two forms that drew the eyes, languid and limp as paper dolls.

"Dear God," John whispered. Sherlock stared mutely, his world going still around him. One figure lay splayed over the other, and through the tangle of limbs and the odd mounds of snow that had formed over them, he knew in an instant it was not her. But as he caught sight of her ragged hair, the arch of her brow half-hidden beneath the man's blood-soaked collar, his heart seized in his chest. Without a word he clambered down into the grave, shoving the man atop her aside and drawing Molly into his arms.

She was cold, much too cold, and his eyes were everywhere at once: the tip of her nose a deep, pomegranate red, the fingertips and toes beginning to blister into a noxious blue-white, her body wrapped in Mycroft's overlarge dressing gown. He wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all, but simply found himself gasping against her frigid cheek. _Molly Hooper_ , he thought, _Molly Hooper_ , as if by thinking her name it might force her eyes to open. But it was his traitorous fingers that found their way close to her skin, pressing deep into the neck, searching for proof. And there, after several terrible seconds- _there,_ the pulse fluttered, ever so faintly, beneath his fingertips. He choked, the relief pouring into him in crashing waves held long at bay. His lips sought hers, pressing in kiss after kiss, a warmth to her chill, shared breath, shared time, shared life. He held her close, struggling to wrap her closer, deeper, into himself-

"Hand her up!" John called, beckoning furiously. "She'll be dangerously hypothermic-"

Sherlock stared at him blankly, fighting the sudden urge to refuse, to never let her out of his arms again-

" _Now,_ Sherlock! There's no time to waste!"

He stood, lifting her silently, his arms trembling from her dead weight. John disappeared with her over the lip of the hole, and his heart dropped from his chest. It was suddenly imperative that he not lose sight of her, the panic seizing up inside him as he clawed his way frantically up with the help of Lestrade's outstretched arm.

"Give her to me." He insisted breathlessly.

John obeyed without a word, his face grim-set. And with a single-minded purpose he had thought lost to him, Sherlock turned back the way he had come, through the relenting snow and the puddling footprints, back to the house on the hill. _Had he ever really left?_ Dimly he was aware of the shouts behind him, and the aching breaths in his chest. His back had dotted in icy sweat, and the sound of his body roared in his ears, all to the thudding pulse that echoed of _Molly. Molly. Molly._

The eyes that opened stopped him in his tracks. In his arms she was a fragile bird, beaten and bruised and numb. But still she looked up at him, half a challenge, and half a welcome, despite it all. Molly's eyes were big and black as wells, and he knew suddenly that he had fallen into those wells in a time long since past, and drowned in them. He was hers so thoroughly, so completely, that the abrupt knowledge forced him to his knees. Together they sank deep into the snow, and he held their selves, their twin souls, together tightly for that small space in time, wordless with wonder.

"Why are you crying?" She mumbled after a moment- and flinched, as if the small words were enough to cause pain.

The taste of salt clung to his lips. Sherlock blinked, and felt the dampness that dripped from his lashes. "I…" and his voice, so often resonant and demanding, shattered in the air.

Molly smiled faintly. "I am come back to you, Mr. Holmes," she sighed, and closed her eyes.


	26. The Lark Ascending

**A/N: So I know I said there would be two more chapters, but... I lied. This is the last chapter! It just didn't seem right, when I ended up writing it- and I grappled with the end for awhile and am pretty pleased with the way it turned out. I'd like to thank all of you incredible people that have joined me on this story for the last two years (two years! what!). You have been an incredible inspiration, and even though the show seems like it has run its course, the community is still very much alive and amazing. You rock. Keep reading, keep writing- and thank you for reminding me how much I love to write! And as always, a very special thanks to likingthistoomuch, who has been steady, encouraging, and thoughtful with her comments. I couldn't have done it without her support!**

 **So, cheers guys! Let me know how you like the end! I'm going to take a break for awhile, but I will be back! (And also pm me with any plot bunnies/time periods you think I should write!) Much love! xxKat**

 **XXVI. The Lark Ascending**

White sheets swathed the house like shrouds for the dead, cloaking the balustrades, the lamps, the chandeliers that had once glittered brightly. He remembered what this place had once been; a house where shrieks of laughter mingled with hysterical screeches, where children had run rampant and unchecked while the Lord and Lady of the house watched, idly, as their children grew. Sherlock stood, lost in silent remembrance, as the ghosts crowded closer. They whispered to him in soft, thin voices, plucking gently at the hems of his trousers, the loose threads of his overcoat.

Weak afternoon light filtered in through the ancient glass panes, grown thick at the bottom with the passage of time. His heels clicked gently as he followed the shifting light, past the cloaked statues that lined the corridor. Stopping abruptly, he hesitated before turning his attention to the figure. It was small, set against the others. And as he whipped the sheet from its unmoving shoulders, the dust motes sprang up, and danced away into the gathering shadows.

Her head was turned towards him, her lips parted, lending her blind features a secret air of knowing. Sherlock's mouth was dry, his tongue made of sandpaper as he traced the hard, stone curls of his sister's hair.

"Is the likeness true?" John emerged from the shadows at his shoulder, peering down at the statue.

Sherlock flicked a glance over his shoulder, his fingers brushing over the smooth line of her chin and neck, the contour of her arm. "Very."

John considered for a moment, his head cocked as he glanced between the stone girl and the man. "You've the same nose."

Sherlock snorted. "And the same hair; marble does it no justice. In life, we were like to twins. I confess I find myself wondering, sometimes; what she might have looked like, who she might have grown to be, had..." his voice trailed off, his lips tightening into a thin, white line. Inhaling deeply, he left her, continuing down the corridor to where the mottled light filtered through the great window. "My grandfather was a painter," he remarked as John trailed after him. "And at my mother's behest he tried his hand, just the once, at sculpture. It is by no means a great work of art, but... it kept Eurus with us, at least a little- before the madness came and scattered us to the four winds."

"You'll tell me one day?" John asked quietly, pulling back the lacy shades with a deft tug of his fingers.

Sherlock smiled slightly, the light catching the gleam of his pale eyes. "I will. But not today, my friend."

The wind scratched through the barren trees, easing the branches first this way, then that, coaxing moans from the dry, rasping wood. Lestrade's men busied themselves below, picking through the scene and muddying the rapidly melting snow with their numberless footsteps. "They'll never learn," Sherlock muttered contemptuously. As if in answer Lestrade turned, squinting up at the two men in the window. He paused, nodding at them gravely before turning back to his work.

There was something, John noted; something in the way Sherlock stood, the way tension prickled down the line of his shoulder blades, the stony set of his gaze as they looked down into the graveyard below. "She'll be alright," John heard himself say, the words escaping his lips in a low murmur. Sherlock made no movement, but the knuckles of his hands whitened slightly, as if his very muscles would betray the inner workings of his thoughts. "She has a- a gash, in her side. I will not mince words, it is deep and ugly; she's lost blood, and it should not have been left for as long as it had been. But I've cleaned it well, and applied stitches and I have no reason to believe it should fester. I believe the wound was inflicted from the spade that lay nearby… judging by the size, and the, ah, the dirt. Really, we ought to be very thankful that Lestrade was able to procure the necessary equipment for me with such haste." He glanced at his friend, wrapped in stony silence. "Holmes- " he hesitated, wetting his lips before barreling on. "- we very nearly lost her. If that man had not fallen _just so_ on top of her- the pressure of his body against hers stemmed the blood flow, and the snow packed her wound from below. The heat of his body protected her limbs from overexposure; only her toes will scar from the frostbite but, thank God, it was not so bad as to lose even one of them and- Sherlock, who _was_ that man?"

Sherlock's lips curled into a snarl as he leaned forward, laying his palm flat against the window. The body of the dead man was sprawled awkwardly in the snow below them. As they watched, Lestrade's men hefted it high on their shoulders, carrying him towards the edge of the graveyard. "I have my theories," he muttered after a moment, "but I would prefer not to air them until I have collected the necessary points of evidence."

"I suppose that's fair," John sighed.

"How did he die?" Sherlock asked abruptly, turning to John and pinning him with his stare. "I did not bother to look."

John shifted uncomfortably, tugging at his moustache. "It, ah… it appears that Molly stabbed him in the neck with a piece of boning broken from her corset. Twice."

"Clever girl," Sherlock whispered, his fingers curling against the glass.

"She won't be charged, if that's what you're wor- "

"I'm not worried."

John paused, a muscle in his temple twitching. "Alright then."

They watched together in silence as the men thrust the corpse none too gently into the police van, slamming the doors behind as they clambered in one by one. Lestrade paused with his hand on the door, turning again to look up at the pair of them. Lifting his hand slowly, he saluted the men. Sherlock felt John stiffen beside him, snapping to attention as he raised his hand in answer. His own fingertips quivered in the air for a moment before he snatched them away, thrusting them deep into his pockets. Lestrade nodded- and then they were gone, jolting their way down the muddy drive.

The snow had stopped and, in the manner of those storms that cannot quite make up their minds, the temperature had crept up, quivering on the edge of warm. The wind gusted all the same, reminding them of winter's presence as the glass panes rattled in their settings. They stared out at the expanse; the shadowy gray horizon that was the meeting of ancient earth and restless air. Against the patchwork of heaving clouds and deepening sky, a small speck darted first this way, then that. The wind buffeted the little creature as it flew, its wings flapping wildly as it came closer. Its little claws reached out and dug, finally, into a snow encrusted limb, not a stone's throw from the window. It cocked its head, fixing the pair with its beady black eye- then threw open its beak. Faintly, they heard its warbling tune, twisting through the wind.

"Is that...?" John began, his voice a measure in muted astonishment.

Sherlock's mouth twisted into a faint smile. "It's a lark."

"Not quite the right season, is it?"

"No, I suppose not. But can you think of all the ills that little bird has weathered, to be in that tree, singing to us now?"

"She'll be alright, Sherlock."

"I know."

They watched in silence, their contours framed in the window, until the wind gusted, and the lark ascended, spiraling upwards on the wings of its song. Sherlock followed its progress with bright, keen eyes, until it was a stain upon the darkening horizon, and then was no more. He let his eyes flutter closed, and then open, the faintest huff of air passing his lips. Turning abruptly, he strode off without a word, leaving his friend haloed in the window-light.

"I was wrong, you know." John said quietly.

Sherlock stopped, shifting his weight. "You're wrong about a great many things, John." He said to the empty corridor.

"I was wrong… in what I said and, I confess, what I have thought of you, many times over." John sighed, struggling to put his thoughts into words. The silence between them grew, until John thrust his hands into his hair, growling in frustration. "I called you an automaton once- after- after Margot and- you're not, you do have an emotional capacity- "

"Of course I do."

John's shoulders fell as he shook his head, his lips turning upward into a half smile. "Yes, you do. You hide it well- or at least you did, until she came into your life. Don't let her slip away, Sherlock."

The frank words slid past Sherlock's slack defenses so easily that it caught his breath. His hand tightened, a flicker of pain flashing over his visage. He stood in the darkened hallway, the light from the far window throwing his form into a glowing silhouette. "If I had not been so... predictable, so _prideful- "_

"You are who you are. And I am who I am." John smiled ruefully. He walked the few steps that separated them, clasping Sherlock's shoulders and turning him with the easy grace born of constant companionship.

"We could live in regret, Sherlock- but how would we ever move forward in our lives? Moriarty's life, ultimately, revolved about you, and a petty revenge he could never let himself release. Do not let him win, grasping what he can from the grave. Irene, Margot... all those others that fell into his clasp, willingly or not- do not let their deaths be in vain. You are brilliant, my friend- but you must build upon your brilliance. You've already begun, I believe- for a detective must know not only the facts, but he must know his own way. And a man can never truly know himself, if he has not opened his spirit to... well," he paused, abruptly embarrassed as he tugged at his moustache. Sherlock smirked.

"Love?"

"Well- yes, if you must know."

"You've been in love before."

John shifted uncomfortably, looking anywhere but at Sherlock. "Not with Margot, if that's what you're driving at. She was..." he sighed. "... a distraction, I think. I've had my fair share of loves, I suppose, but it would have been nice, just once…"

"You're hardly dead yet, John."

John smirked at the wooden floorboards, scuffing at them with the toe of his shoe for all the world like an errant schoolboy. "No, I suppose I'm not." He sighed, and looked up. "Don't waste what fate has so willingly given you. You have a whole life ahead of you, if you'll only… _seize it."_ John coughed, turning away. "I must return the supplies to Doctor Murdoch, and send word to my practice- we should return to Baker Street as soon as Miss Hooper is feeling up to it. I have no wish to see that wound fester, and should very much like to have a look at it again in our own quarters." He glanced up at Sherlock, then held out his hand. Sherlock eyed it a moment, before grasping it firmly in his own. "See that you're there when she wakes, Sherlock." John turned, his heels echoing as he walked sedately down the rest of the corridor, turned the corner, and left Sherlock staring at the place where he had been only moments before.

 **~0~0~**

There was something different in the air; past the aroma of Mrs. Hudson's baking (cream buns, bless those delectable cream buns,) past the tea (steeped overlong and ripe with tannins,) past the scent of Molly, seeming to permeate every inch of his flat. This was _different;_ the faint flowery musk of eau de cologne only barely serving to mask the sharp tang of ether. Sherlock snarled, slamming the door of the flat behind him as he barreled up the stairs to 221B.

"I swear it, John, if I find that man anywhere _near_ her- " he stopped short. There, in the drawing room, sitting in his chair, was a woman. John half-stood, shrugging helplessly as he gestured to the tea service on the side table.

The woman gave the distinct impression of overabundance, if the velvets and laces adorning her sleeves and bosom were anything to go by. Sherlock stared, the faintest quiver of irritation twitching his eye. "Mrs. Hooper." He said flatly.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes!" She bolted from her seat, setting her ribbons to fluttering wildly. Her face, blotchy and and pale from crying trembled as she rung her hands fitfully. "Mr. Holmes you brave, dear man! How can we ever thank you! Our poor, dear Molly- oh, but she was always getting into trouble, that one, it's no wonder- but- that you took it upon yourself-!" She flung herself at him, pulling his face down and against her bosom so that a bit of lace found its way up his nose. Mrs. Hooper clasped him tightly, overcome, and in a moment Sherlock found himself overwhelmed by the woman, holding her upright as she sobbed into the lapel of his overcoat. " _How can we ever thank you?"_ She wailed. He floundered, his eyes wide and his arms sagging under her sudden weight as he stared, his mouth working soundlessly. Mrs. Hooper stiffened abruptly, and pulled back, her fists gripping the lapels in a surprisingly strong grip as her eyes narrowed. "You are still single, aren't you?" She asked suspiciously.

He threw John a look of pure venom over the woman's shoulders as his mouth snapped shut. John's moustache twitched fiercely as he struggled to smother a laugh behind his hand. "Dr. Hooper is… within." He choked out finally, his smile faltering as Sherlock's eyes hardened.

Mrs. Hooper released him as the atmosphere suddenly shifted, glancing over her shoulder between the two men. Swotting at her nose with a white lace handkerchief and blowing furiously, she nodded. "Go on, then," she said pointedly, eyeing the door at the end of the corridor that led to Sherlock's bedroom.

He swept past them without a word, his hand pausing for only a moment before he entered his room. The late afternoon light glanced through the window, sweeping its way over the floorboards and onto the bed, illuminating Molly's braids snaking across the pillow. Three days had passed since he had found her, had carried her, limp and cold, to the strange remains of his childhood home. Not for the first time did he watch the rise and fall of her chest, traced down the line of her neck with his eyes. She was still much too pale; the hollows under her eyes deep bruises, her lips chapped and her cheeks a bright red. But her breath was no longer labored, and her skin had begun to take on its proper coloring again. She was healing, and it would not be rushed.

"Mr. Holmes." Sherlock blinked at the sound of Dr. Hooper's awkward, crackling voice. The man cleared his throat laboriously, and drank from the glass that was placed at his hand. He was tired, that much was plain- and reluctant to have the conversation both knew to be coming.

"Dr. Hooper," Sherlock murmured softly, bending to tuck the coverlets closer around Molly's exposed shoulders. He did not spare a glance in the doctor's direction, but let his finger trail softly against her hand, brushing her cheek with his thumb. He frowned at the position she was in; bent slightly, and curled in upon herself with her leg held out at an awkward angle, as if any other position might plague her with pain. Resisting the urge to move closer, to examine her wounds in finer detail, he made do with a press of his thumb against her wrist. Her pulse throbbed against his touch, warm and steady.

Dr. Hooper coughed dryly. "I must congratulate you- "

"Do not finish that sentence." The sharp intake of breath had him smirking at Molly in an instant, as if imagining Dr. Hooper's expression was a secret they two might share.

"I do beg your pardon, Mr. Holmes- if I have offended- "

"Dr. Hooper, have you any idea of the peril you are in?"

"I- peril? What- "

Sherlock straightened slowly, facing the man seated in the corner. Dr. Hooper shrank back, as if suddenly aware of where- or _who-_ this peril was drawn from. "N-now, see here, Holmes- " he stuttered, but fell silent as Sherlock towered over him. He watched Dr. Hooper lazily, enjoying the man's squirming. _He deserved it._

"You must confess, Hooper," he said smoothly, and bent low to whisper in the man's ear. " _Or I cannot rightfully take responsibility for my actions."_ Stepping back quickly, Sherlock watched the man's Adam's apple bob disconcertingly in his throat. He sat gently on the edge of the bed, snaking his hand furtively beneath the coverlets to feel the heat of Molly's foot against his fingers. Smiling pleasantly, he let his gaze bore into Dr. Hooper. "Have you committed any great wrongdoings, dear Sir?"

He waited.

The room filled with the noises from the street below; the soft clatter of hooves and heavy wheels over cobblestones. Molly slept on; and though it was a heavy, drugged sleep, it was not one immune to the conversations of others.

And suddenly Doctor Hooper gasped, his face falling into his hands. " _I have,_ God help me, _I have!"_

"I thought as much," Sherlock said wryly, and squeezed Molly's foot gently. He felt her stir sluggishly at the contact, and squeezed again, more softly. " _Speak."_ He said, with a voice like the crack of a whip.

"I- there was no other way!"

"No other way than to condemn your child to life in the company of a murderer and a madman?"

"I- I did not- "

"You did not _know_ he was a murderer, you never held the evidence in your hands- but you always suspected, didn't you?" Sherlock laughed humorlessly as the man fell silent. "Allow me to sketch a story. I confess, there are some facts, some gaps in my knowledge that I have not yet managed to fill. Perhaps you will oblige me when I reach them."

Doctor Hooper nodded silently, his eyes grown round and red beneath his spectacles as he twisted his hands nervously in his lap.

"In your youth, Hooper, you served in The British Army. In which campaign particularly I cannot be sure of; I admit, I do not stay as abreast of the politics of war as some might deem prudent. However: it is clear that you were stationed in the African continent."

"How- "

Sherlock shot him a filthy glance. "Please, Dr Hooper- no interruptions. Suffice it to say that the ivory ring on your right hand is of an angular design the Ashanti are particularly fond of. Now. You knew Richard Brook; had known him since your days as an Army doctor. I know you were discharged, I know you were desperately unpopular with your peers. _Why?_ The question puzzled me for a long while, and I admit that even then, in our early fleeting encounters, Miss Hooper had a way of driving my attention towards herself, and away from observations upon the despicable specimens she called family." He leaned forward and, with a quick, casual tug, ripped back Dr. Hooper's left shirt sleeve, seizing his arm and peeling the fabric upward. Dr. Hooper flailed away with a sudden gasp, but Sherlock's grip was firm. The faded mottling in the crook of his elbow framed the single dark depression, ragged and fresh.

"You don't understand," snarled Dr. Hooper, wrenching his arm away. Sherlock stepped back, and watched as the man sullenly readjusted his cuff.

"Unfortunately, I do." Replied Sherlock ruefully. "I understand the need, the burning desire that never seems to fade. I understand the release, the clarity it brings- the blessed _silence_ to the tormented head." He paused, looking down at his long hands, before fixing Dr. Hooper with a flinty gaze. "What I cannot, and indeed will _never_ understand, is how an army doctor finds himself in the habit of withholding morphine during wartime, when those who are so clearly in need of it lie in their countless numbers at your very doorstep."

Dr. Hooper paled. "It was not as if..." he mumbled, fumbling at his cuff. He cleared his throat nervously. "Most of the men... they were incurable. Swamp fever, malaria..."

"But do you not deny that you could have eased their passing, those that were beyond help?"

"I do not deny it!" Dr. Hooper burst out vehemently, his eyes wide and his cheeks flushing violently. And just as suddenly as he had lashed out, he deflated, removing his spectacles and passing a shaking hand over his face. "I do not deny it," he said in a quieter voice, shooting a quick glance at Molly's prone form.

"She sleeps," murmured Sherlock easily.

Dr. Hooper nodded, his eyes bright. "I... Richard, he knew. He caught me at it, more than once. I don't know how the man learned to look for me at those times... but he always knew, he knew _everything._ And- and he was a common soldier, you know- it's not even as if he had a position, but he had a gift, you see- "

"A gift?"

Dr. Hooper's mouth twisted as he inclined his head. "A gift for blackmail."

Sherlock smiled wryly. "Ah yes, he was certainly intimately acquainted with the art. And this was his trade, I take it? A little threat here, a little information there..."

"He was a talented individual; a collector of pertinent knowledge. He... some of the men knew of my... transgressions, as well- they were furious, we had a- a terrific row- " he swallowed abruptly, flexing his fingers as he eyed a thin, white scar that stretched across his knuckles. "Their friend was dying, I... I could do nothing for him, and yet they accused me... but I could do nothing for him!" He cried out, overcome. "What could I do for a man already dying of swamp fever? Nothing! He was beyond my capabilities, and in God's hands alone- "

"Yes, yes, alright, they were wrong and you were in the right, very good- _but what happened to the men?"_

"It wasn't my fault, I swear it! They... they..." Dr Hooper stuttered to a halt, his breath coming in quick gasps, overwhelmed by memories long buried.

Sherlock nodded slowly. "They died in an accident before they could speak the truth."

"I swear I had nothing- "

"I _know."_ Sherlock snapped irritably. "You may be a selfish, ignorant man, but you are no killer- at least, not in any direct sort of way. And Moriarty... _Richard..._ he threatened you, didn't he? It could so easily have been your doing; had the investigation been turned in the right direction, it would have been your ruin. He made sure you knew it, and kept you there, ever his little pawn. And you, positioned so strategically in the medical profession, even in the moors of Dartmoor! You must have been of some use to him, from time to time, I'm sure- the death of Lady Bartlet, for one, reeked of your influence. And I must confess, I was astonished at the ease in which Richard Brook found himself such a comfortable position as Professor of Maths at St. Bartholomew's - that is, of course, until it became known to me that the school was your own alma mater. You had your own small sphere of influence, of course- and you must have been so relieved, Dr. Hooper, to have been honorably discharged, and sent back to England. Away from the small African empire that Richard Brook had drawn to himself, away from the truth. You scuttled back home, found yourself a comfortable position in Dartmoor, and married Felicity Hooper, the silliest woman I have ever had the misfortune to meet. But he sent you letters, and knew of your doings; and before long he came again, knocking at your door. Who were you to refuse, if past sins were to remain as they should: in the past? A marriage was a small price to pay. After all, Molly was edging on spinsterhood- yes, a marriage could only do her good; give her a child to look after and knock all her hopes, those foolish wishes and dreams, free from her aging head- "

"I had no wish to- "

"And yet you did so anyway. Do I have the straight of it, or is there more you wish to tell me?"

Dr. Hooper glared at him a moment, then sighed. All the fight seemed to drain from him in that sigh, and he was left suddenly a thin, balding, tired-looking man. "No." He said shortly, dropping his head back against of the edge of the seat. "No, Mr. Holmes, there is nothing more of my story to tell. But would you believe me, if I told you I truly trusted that my girl would come to no harm? Marriage never hurt anyone!"

Sherlock laughed incredulously, leaning back as if to catch the full image of Dr. Hooper in one glance. "My God, but I am continually reminded of your utter imbecility! Truly, it is remarkable. Now tell me, have you ever heard of Sebastian Moran?"

"Of course I've heard of him. I would have mentioned him before now, but he seemed of no relevance." Dr. Hooper narrowed his eyes, shifting in his seat as he began to follow Holmes's train of thought. "Why? He was Brook's right-hand man- are you going to tell me he's still out there?" Dr. Hooper snorted. "Forgive me, but I wouldn't be the slightest bit surprised. For heaven's sake, he was an army man as well; a crack shot, they said. But I haven't seen hide nor hair of him these many years- though I suppose I could say the same of Brook, until he… reappeared."

"Causing you to sell your daughter in exchange for keeping old secrets buried. Including the deaths of those men. Just to be absolutely clear."

"I told you, I had _nothing_ to do- "

"Yes but you _could_ have, couldn't you? And… _Brook…_ knew that, knew how to twist the status quo. And now he is dead, and so is Moran."

"Moran? But I thought surely he would wish to exact revenge- "

"Mr. Hooper, would it surprise you to learn that Sebastian Moran was killed by your daughter?"

Dr. Hooper goggled for a moment, casting his gaze from Sherlock to Molly's sleeping form and back again. "Wh- what? My Molly- "

"She is not _your Molly_ any longer, Mr. Hooper. She is _no man's_ Molly, save mine, if she will have me. Mr. Hooper, your daughter has more brains, honesty, will and gumption in the entirety of her little finger than you could ever hope to possess. Forgive me if I have the temerity to believe that she is _not_ , in fact, your daughter at all. Mrs. Hooper has always been the flighty sort, has she not? And now, Mr. Hooper, it is time for you to leave, and for the rest of us poor souls to get on with our lives. I do not wish to see you again, and I rather doubt that she will either- but you may depend, I suppose, on her being the forgiving sort. Good day." Sherlock stood abruptly, walked to the door, and held it open.

Dr. Hooper was slower in his movements, but he rose, crossing the room with hesitant steps. Pausing at the side of the bed, he stared down at his daughter. "She _is_ mine," he said in a fierce undertone, "and she always will be... if..." sighing, he closed his eyes and turned away. The bedding shifted around her, rising and falling with the movement of her breath. "I hope one day you will forgive me, my dear Molly," he murmured. He allowed himself one last glance, as if memorizing the sight of her, before turning away.

Sherlock closed the door behind him with a soft _snick._ Turning, he considered Molly for a moment before crossing to the bed, toeing off his shoes as he went. The bed dipped, groaning slightly under their combined weight. He leaned back against the headboard, sighing as he slid an arm beneath her to tug her close against his chest.

"How much did you hear?" He murmured, his deft fingers finding the end of her braids and gently twisting them apart.

Molly's lips twitched into a half-smirk as she glanced up at him. "Enough," she hummed softly, and turned her face further into his chest. Her eyes slid closed as she inhaled the scent of him; the smell of man and spice and a hint of gunpowder, which she supposed might have frightened her once but now only bred an overwhelming sense of belonging.

"Do you really think he's not my father?" She asked after a moment, tilting her head up to stare into his face. He snorted, opening one clear eye to glance down at her furrowed brow, the worry that twisted her mouth. Only she could be so forgiving, so open, after all manner of crude revelations had been heaped at her feet.

"Of course he's your father. I simply wished to twist the blade."

"That was unkind."

Sherlock laughed. "Molly, did you not just hear him, his confession? He is a selfish, greedy, morally ambiguous man, the author of _many_ crimes, and can hardly claim the right to have made you who you are."

"I know," she said softly, and abruptly turned away, punching her fist into the down pillows before collapsing into them. "But he was good to me. He's still my father." She sighed, curling in upon herself before whispering in a small voice, "He gave me _Gray's Anatomy._ "

She refused to say nothing more on the subject and, after an hour of watching her stare sullenly at the wall, Sherlock lifted himself from the bed, and closed the door behind him.

 **~0~0~**

"You've brooded long enough." Sherlock snapped, wrenching the wooly, tartan blanket from atop Molly's legs as she sat perched on the window seat, staring down into Baker Street.

The few days that had gone since Dr. Hooper's visit had passed interminably slowly, as the two had danced a strange dance of irascibility interchanged with tenderness. Poor Dr. Watson had, eventually, given up on the sniping pair altogether and had taken to sleeping at his practice, scarcely showing his face at all.

"I am _not_ brooding." Molly insisted, glaring up into Sherlock's face. "I am simply weighing my options _._ Tell me, Mr. Holmes, what would _you_ do, if you were to find yourself a destitute woman, with a family who, it transpires, possesses nothing short of a fine pot of detestable attributes?"

"Destitute?" Sherlock scoffed, falling languidly into his armchair. "Don't be dramatic, you are hardly _destitute."_ He reached for the Persian shoe tucked smartly behind the chaise cushion, only to find it knocked unceremoniously from his hand. He blinked dumbly at the tobacco that had fallen from its hiding place deep in the depths of the shoe, fanning itself across the carpet.

"You will _never_ understand!" She exclaimed, shaking the shoe in his face. A few lone, sweet-smelling leaves dropped to the front of his dressing gown, accenting the deep blue shade. He eyed them for a moment, then looked up at her. Her cheeks were flushed a deep shade of pink, clearly furious at the lack of reaction. He resisted the urge to smile at the impossible loveliness of an angry Molly Hooper.

"You're a man, how could you _possibly_ understand what it is to be a woman in this world? I want nothing to do with my family at the moment," she continued, ticking off a finger with the point of the shoe. "So I will _not_ be relying upon their charity. And do you suppose the dearly departed Mr. Brook left behind a will? A house in my name, a proper pension for a proper widow?" Sherlock flinched as Brook's name dropped from her lips, and looked away. She laughed humorlessly, and took a step closer, leaning forward so that their faces were of a level. "Oh, I'd quite forgotten- _Moriarty_ , that was his proper name, after all. I have _nothing_ ," Molly hissed angrily. "I have nothing, and no one- "

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably at that, and her eyes narrowed. "And no _prospects,_ apparently,"

"Are you… quite sure, of that last bit?" Sherlock muttered, looking desperately around the room as Molly glared determinedly into is face.

"I have nothing," She continued coolly, "but a man for whom I care deeply." She paused, sucking in a quick breath as if startled by the sudden truth of her own words. Sherlock stared at her, the hint of a smile beginning to curl his lips. And that smile seemed to infuriate her afresh, for she reeled suddenly back, throwing the Persian slipper at his chest. "A man who does not, it seems, have neither the decency nor the propriety to propose a marriage offer to the woman he so clearly admires!"

He was on his feet in a moment, the errant tobacco leaves falling to the floor. His eyes flashed dangerously, and Molly was abruptly aware of the vast difference in their height as she glowered up at him. "I'm sorry, are you angry with _me_?" Sherlock asked incredulously.

"For a brilliant detective, you are the most obtuse man I have ever met!" She exclaimed, turning to storm from the room- but he caught her wrist, and held it firmly.

"Has it ever occurred to _you_ that I had no wish to encroach on your recovery? You have been _quite_ ill, if you hadn't noticed, and your Father's revelations- not to mention Moriarty's and my subsequent entwinement in the affair- were sure to unsettle you! You were clearly distraught and I was simply waiting for the opportune moment! Miss Hooper- "

"I thought we'd gotten past all this 'Miss Hooper' nonsense," she quipped, and there was a laugh hidden behind in her voice despite the stern expression.

Sherlock simply stared. Her smile faltered as he continued to watch her in silence. And suddenly she was ashamed, as their time together was thrown into blunt relief. The hours of turmoil and pain and panic, _that_ had been their legacy, with the moments of sweetness few and far between. How many quiet moments had they been given together, after all? Did she know this man as well as she believed? _Yes, I do,_ she thought fiercely. She knew every curve of his face, the lines of his hands, the shock of his unruly hair, the sunburst in his right eye. She knew his penchant for pipe tobacco over cigarettes, his abhorrence of a tidy, well-kept place, his absolute dismissal of the dull and dim witted. She knew he was kind, even if he seemed a hard, waspish man. She knew-

 _I consider myself married to my work._ Hadn't he said that to her once, all that time ago? She met his stare, his pale, colorless eyes searching her own. The breath left her lungs as she realized the naked truth: could it be that _he didn't want her,_ had never wanted her? Had she misread every hint, every touch- every- _every blatant word-_ no, it could not _possibly_ be, even he could not be so much a fool-

"Marry me, then," he said simply.

Molly felt her lips part, the tears begin to sting her eyes as she locked his gaze with hers. She felt the heat rise to her cheeks afresh as her jaw clamped tight.

"A man can change," Sherlock said hurriedly, clasping her hands firmly in his own. "That is to say, I- I _could_ change, if you asked it of me- "

"Don't be ridiculous," she snapped, scowling up at him. Her sob turned to half a laugh as the words came tumbling from her lips. "You honestly suppose I would have you any other way? No, Sherlock, I want _you,_ cases and insanity and all. And- " she laughed out a half-sob. "And I'll want a few things of my own,"

"And what would they be?" Sherlock asked, his lip curling back into an uncertain grin, though his eyes flashed mischievously.

She sniffed, considering a moment, narrowing her streaming eyes. "Take me with you, on the cases. And books," she added, "I'll- I'll need lots of books, they were all… there was so much, left behind."

"Done."

"And you still wish- "

"I still wish to marry you? Molly, I am a ridiculous man, I admit, but- "

She reached up, pulling his face down to meet her salt-stained lips, and kissed him. His breath was full of humor as he leaned into her, the taste of him fresh; of peaches and tobacco smoke, of sunrises yet to come and summers long forgotten. Molly smiled into his mouth. His fingers trailed up into her hair as he tugged, gently, at the curling ends. "You cannot know how this question has consumed me," he murmured. Her forehead fell against his chest, the steadiness of his heartbeat sweet and heady. "For a time I thought you might never wake. And then after- "

"Shh," She hushed him, pulling back to look into his face. "I was always going to wake," her smile grew broader, and the life they had salvaged together danced in her eyes. "And you were always going to be mine."

 **~0~0~**

In the end, it was a simple thing, to love, and be loved. The wedding had been small, with only those close to them in attendance. Mycroft had recovered and, though his breath was still labored (as it ever was,) he had been guided to his seat by Archie, and sent the boy scurrying on a dozen errands. John had brought a certain Miss Morstan along with him, and it irritated Sherlock greatly that the woman seemed to be every bit his match. Indeed, Molly's smiles had been so constant and sparkling that he grudgingly admitted the affair must have been a good one after all. And so he carried her over the threshold to 221B Baker Street in a flurry of starched white lace, her eyes flashing and her laugh breathless.

"Put me down, Sherlock!" Molly laughed up at him, though her hands clutched tight about his neck.

He found his breath caught, as it had been countless times before, by the warmth of her gaze, the molten dark pools that cut through him. A gentle breeze floated through the open window, bringing with it the sweet, deepening night. Her smile broadened as he leaned his forehead against hers, clutching her tightly about the waist. The lace prickled against his fingers, and the sudden urge that leapt up inside him to remove the damnable fabric, the delicate embroidered blossoms, in the quickest possible manner became an urgent conviction. Sensing this, she laughed, kissing him briskly. "Come then, husband- let's to bed."

Sherlock nodded, his eyes crinkling into a smile as he kissed the side of her jaw, relishing the smooth skin beneath his lips. "Go along, I'll just be a moment."

She cocked her head at him, her brow raised in merry amusement. "Are you quite serious? Now?"

"Go along!" He smirked, squeezing her hand and giving her a slight push towards the bedroom. "I'll be right behind you."

Her hips swayed as she turned, toying with the buttons of the dress. Flashing a last, impish grin, she disappeared down the corridor and into their bedroom.

Sherlock waited until he heard the _snick_ of the door closing before he took a breath, and crossed to the fireplace. It sat unused and un-needed on such a fine spring day, all traces of ash and dust swept away. The great mirror sitting atop it had been freshly burnished, gleaming with the remains of the day. On the mantlepiece sat his skull, his old friend; and the post, thrust through with his pen knife, the bat, pinned and encased in glass. His hand trailed to the pocket of his waistcoat and, with a sigh, he drew the twisted remains of the _vegsívir_ flat upon his palm. It had been mangled terribly in the fire; the amber panes were nothing more than a small gnarled lump of ashy orange, the markings eliminated by smoke and flame. Slowly, he hefted it in his hand- then dropped it through the eye socket of the skull. The dull _thud_ seemed like that of a chain broken, and he stared after it, unseeing eye to unseeing eye.

"Sherlock? Are you coming?" Molly's voice floated through the door, musical and lilting. His Molly. _His wife._

Sherlock Holmes smiled then, and felt the weight that had been forever borne upon his shoulders lift. He raised his head, staring at the new man reflected back to him in the mirror. "Yes, my dear," he murmured, "I do believe I am."

THE END


End file.
